No Heavier Burden
by mahc
Summary: JED-ABBEY-ENSEMBLE 'Anguish devours the mind, and furious rage, and hope than which the heart can bear no heavier burden.' Jed finally buckles under the burdens after Zoey's return.
1. The Swirl of Blue and Gold: Jed

This just sort of came to me as I pondered how Jed would handle all the stress and trauma of the days surrounding Zoey's kidnapping and rescue (ignoring the time controversy of graduation/Fourth of July). Abbey had gone to NH, and we assume the rest of the family has returned home, so he is there alone to deal with his thoughts. Look for changes in POV in subsequent chapters. Hope you enjoy the first part.  
  
POV: Jed Spoilers: "7A"; "Jefferson Lives" Rating: PG Disclaimer: Not mine. Sorkin's. Or Wells', I guess.  
  
No Heavier Burden - Chapter One A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
He sat.  
  
Even though she was safe. Even though he was back. Even though the country seemed content. Even though there was work to do, business to conduct.  
  
Still, he sat, the ancient book with its yellowing pages balanced carefully on one knee.  
  
They were gone. She was gone. Just gone. No real goodbye. No time frame of when they'd be back. He would go to them. To her. But there would be no difference in the reception he received.  
  
He breathed in the stale scent of the paper, the odor of history.  
  
She blamed him. He knew that. It certainly wasn't news to anyone near them. The staff knew. The whole family knew. They blamed him, too. Maybe even Ellie, despite the unexpected comfort she had given him. Even Ellie.  
  
Of course, they were right. It was his fault.  
  
Not Leo's, who had convinced him of the impossibility of any other choice. Not Fitz's, who promised a quick, easy execution of the plan. Not Nancy's, who knew the sacrifices of world power and politics and accepted them. Not Qumar's, which allowed such terrible people to operate as national officers in the first place. Not even Shareef's.  
  
His fault. His decision. His burden.  
  
Glancing down at the faded pages before him, he almost laughed at the consistent ignorance of man. It was the same today as then. Modern America. Ancient Rome. Would humans ever learn?  
  
He knew it was wrong. "It's just wrong," he had told Leo. There were moral absolutes, and he had allowed himself for one fateful moment to ignore his own deeply held beliefs. "It's absolutely wrong."  
  
But the world wasn't judging him - or if it was, he had met with some strangely ironic approval. They agreed with his decision. It was all right that he killed Shareef. He should have killed Shareef. All the Republicans thought so. And that certainly encouraged him.  
  
Maybe she would have agreed too, if he had told her before. Maybe if she had known earlier -  
  
But she hadn't. He had not been able to dredge up the courage to make the confession, to look into her eyes and see the disappointment, the sudden doubt about his character. She would wonder if he was the same man she had married 36 years before. He knew the answer to that. That was what scared him. She knew, too.  
  
And now she knew it all, had heard not from his lips but along with the rest of the world. Again.  
  
In the end, he had seen the disappointment anyway, but much worse. Disappointment boiling in the anger that placed the fate of their daughter squarely on his head. He had told her the Shareef assassination had nothing to do with the kidnapping, had actually said that. But how could he have expected her to believe him when he didn't even believe himself?  
  
No. His fault. His fault. His fault.  
  
But Zoey was all right. Or she would be. He had promised her they would help. And he meant it. And in time Abbey would come around. He couldn't let himself think otherwise. He could bear the weight of the world. He could shoulder the responsibility of being the most powerful man on earth. He could make decisions that changed the path of history.  
  
He could do all that. But not without her. Without her he might as well have left Walken in that chair, might as well have turned everything over to the hulking former Speaker of the House and let him blow away every damned country on earth if he felt like it.  
  
The dull headache that he had fought all morning grew, and he considered giving in to it and asking Charlie for some aspirin. But he knew that really wouldn't help. Drugs could only mask the symptoms of his disease. There was no cure for the burden he carried, a burden that had nothing to do with the MS. It was done. She could forgive him - and how he hoped she would - but he could never forgive himself.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
The forgotten book slipped from his lap, hit the floor with a soft thunk. Damn. He hoped it hadn't creased the pages. That book was over 200 years old, a rare printing of Greek and Roman poems. His fingers reached toward it, stretched out to rescue it from further damage, but somehow he couldn't quite make it.  
  
"Mister President?"  
  
Someone called him, but he couldn't see past the instant blinding pain behind his eyes, couldn't tell who it was or what they must want. He tried to answer, tried to tell them to go away and let him brood in solitude. But it suddenly took too much effort.  
  
"Are you all right, Sir?"  
  
Abbey. It occurred to him that he needed Abbey. But she wasn't there. She had left him to deal with the terrible responsibilities alone, to carry the burdens of an entire world by himself. To face the consequences of a morally wrong decision.  
  
"Mister President!" That intruding voice rose in pitch.  
  
He tried to stand - thought he had for a moment - until he realized the swirl of blue and gold was coming up fast. A quick flash of pain popped across his cheek and his last coherent thoughts returned to the poem he had been staring at only moments before.  
  
"Anguish devours the mind, and furious rage, and hope than which the heart can bear no heavier burden, when it is long deferred." 


	2. Someone Else Can Show Him Where the Xero...

POV: Charlie Young Spoilers: "7A;" "Dogs of War;" "Jefferson Lives" (and some earlier 1st season eps) Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters are not my creation, but I love to mess with them occasionally.  
  
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Two A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Charlie Young realized when the letters in front of him began to cross into unreadable blurs that it was time to go home. Never mind that it had really been time to go home about six hours earlier. The President was still in the Oval Office so he was still at his desk. He checked his watch. Midnight. Not unusual for Jed Bartlet to be burning that very oil, but this was the fourth night in a row that he had lingered on into the early morning. Charlie was beginning to wonder if there wasn't more to his hesitancy to spend time in the Residence than just catching up on work missed during Walken's tenure.  
  
Stacking the papers he was sorting, he thought back to the previous few days, grateful they were past the crisis, but aware that another crisis seemed to be brewing, this one more personal, more intimate. One that the world would not share, but one that affected his boss just as deeply.  
  
Zoey was back. Zoey was back and everything should have been normal again. Except that it wasn't. Charlie had been the first to see it. She tried to make a good show, to put on a brave face, but he knew her, he saw. And he couldn't let it go.  
  
He swallowed as he recalled that conversation in the Oval Office. He had never talked to Josiah Bartlet like that. Never in all the years he had worked for him. Despite the intimacy of his contact with the President and the First Family. He had teased - carefully - when his boss seemed open to that. He had deferred, agreed, obeyed. But he had never confronted the President in any serious matter and certainly not one concerning his youngest daughter.  
  
"The 82nd Airborne works for me," he had been reminded on more than one occasion. And Charlie knew him well enough to realize it wasn't completely a joke.  
  
It was a risk. The man had been through so much, it seemed cruel to open his eyes to more sadness, to the pain of realizing his daughter really wasn't okay. Not yet. And he wasn't sure exactly how the President would take the observation. He had rarely been on the receiving end of true anger from his boss, but he had seen the results when directed at others, had heard the steel in that tone, the edge in that normally smooth voice. Usually, Toby had been the one leaving the room immediately after, but Charlie wondered if he might not be inviting a first-hand experience.  
  
Still, there was one thing Charlie Young did know. Despite the bluster, despite the over-protectiveness, Jed Bartlet loved him. And there was another thing he knew. He loved Jed Bartlet. The father he hadn't known. The role model he didn't realize he had needed. The infallible icon, and - at the same time - the very human human being.  
  
He had long ago decided he would do anything for Jed Bartlet. "I work for you," he had told him when the President suggested he return to the Oval Office to help Acting President Walken. "I work for you." And he did. Personal Assistant to the President, true, but in his eyes there was only one President. It would have been impossible for him to walk into that room and serve an imposter in that chair. An imposter whose crude and unpolished behavior marked a pitiful contrast to the sophistication and style of the Bartlet Administration. No, he wouldn't go back to that room until the President - the REAL President - did.  
  
Then it was over, so suddenly he wasn't sure why it had taken so long in the first place. The call, the helicopter ride, the massive spread of blue and red flashing garishly against the Virginia trees. His heart throbbed in his throat as he followed the President and First Lady, picking up his pace as they broke into a run and Mrs. Bartlet cried out her daughter's name.  
  
And it was over. Done. She was back. The President was back.  
  
But he realized now that it was only the beginning. It didn't take him long to see the pain behind the glazed eyes, to feel the forced cheerfulness, the fragile bravado. He knew why. She did it for him - for her father. She was like him, after all. Charlie could imagine a younger Jed Bartlet, popular, charming, the force of his personality an effective cover for some deeper darkness that lay in his heart.  
  
It was unspoken knowledge that Stanley Keyworth had visited the President on more than one occasion. And, although no one really knew exactly what demons the psychiatrist tried to exorcize - and there could be many for a man of such responsibility - Charlie suspected. He had seen the photograph of the elder Dr. Bartlet, had stepped into the aftermath of a conversation with Toby and felt his skin crawl with the charged emotion of the room. The President had composed himself quickly for his body man, but Charlie thought he knew where they anguish lay.  
  
And now Zoey was doing the same thing, putting up a good front, covering her true feelings so her father could see her as he wanted to see her. But that's all it was, a cover.  
  
So he confronted the President of the United States, risked the wrath of a man who, if he so chose, could make him disappear with a simple nod to any one of those dark suited agents. Of course, the only real thing he risked was the defensive anger of a father whose emotional state had to be tenuous at best, after everything he had been through. Nevertheless, it was a risk he had to take. And that was what prompted his own bout of bravery.  
  
"She knows you like to see her strong. She thinks what happened was her fault."  
  
He had braced his body for the response, for the explosion, but it didn't happen. No outburst, no fireworks, no denial. In the end it was only quiet acceptance, as if the President had known this all along. The pain on his face almost made Charlie wish he hadn't said anything, and he found himself apologizing.  
  
The familiar mask was back in place quickly, though. "Her mother wants to take her back to New Hampshire for a while. What do you think?"  
  
Later he would marvel at the significance of the President of the United States asking his advice, at Josiah Bartlet asking his advice. But at the moment, he paused and took a second to weigh the seriousness of that question; in that second he saw that he would only be confirming what Zoey's father had already decided himself.  
  
"I think her momma's right," he said. Then, suddenly feeling as if he had overstepped his privilege, he left his boss to his own thoughts. Surely those were heavy enough without additional commentary.  
  
And so she was gone. Gone with her mother back to recover physically and emotionally. To be around the familiar things of her childhood. But that left someone else alone, someone else who now had to face his demons again.  
  
And Charlie knew what additional burden he bore, had unintentionally caught snatches of the bitter accusations the First Lady had spit out, had seen the self-recrimination on the President's face, had watched the shoulders that bore the responsibility of the world slump under the weight of the guilt.  
  
And now he was alone to ponder all those charges. He had put up a good front, as usual, had met his duties, faced his country and assured them with convincing strength and fervor that all was well.  
  
But after the green lights clicked to red, after Leo returned to his office, after Debbie closed the door to the Oval, the burdens fell on one person.  
  
And so for the fourth night in a row, he took refuge in that office, in that title, in that work that now threatened more than he knew. He had shifted from the desk to his favorite wingback chair about an hour before, the book Charlie brought him from that store he loved resting in his lap. Maybe he found solace in whatever wisdom those ancient poets had preserved for the ages. Charlie hoped so. But evening was quickly moving into early morning. Everyone had left long ago, even Leo. It fell to his body man to prompt him on to bed, whether he wanted to or not. Shoving the remaining papers aside, Charlie eased away from his desk.  
  
Respectfully, he eased his head around the door. "It's late, Sir," he suggested softly, but received no acknowledgement.  
  
"Sir?" A little louder this time.  
  
At first he thought the man must be dozing, and he smiled a little. Heaven knew he could use the sleep. Charlie didn't think he had slept the entire time Zoey was missing. And, of course, the past few nights could only have netted him a total of about 12 hours in a third as many days. As he watched, the book slipped from its perch and fell to the floor. Before he could move to pick it up, the President stirred and reached for it.  
  
Okay. Step back. He didn't like to be fussed over. His boss would protest, but even he had to acknowledge it was time to stop. But it only took a closer look to realize this might be the time to fuss. The strong, square hand didn't close over the volume, just seemed to hover without purpose.  
  
"Mister President?"  
  
Then, the solid body slumped, and he caught a glimpse of the eyes, glazed and a bit stunned, the crinkles around them tight. The President was in pain, that much was certain. Heart pounding, Charlie stepped toward him.  
  
"Are you all right, Sir?"  
  
His wishful brain tried to make one last justification. It was late. He was tired. But as his boss tried to push to his feet, Charlie saw that wasn't it at all.  
  
"Mister President!" he cried, a beat too late to stop the body from crumpling, a step too late to keep the head from striking the table on the way down, and over a week too late to stop Zoey from going to that party and starting this horrible mess in the first place. 


	3. Debated and Discussed: Abbey

POV: Abbey Spoilers: "Two Cathedrals;" "7A;" "Dogs of War;" "Jefferson Lives" Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: Sorkin's originally. Wells, too, now. Not mine, although I wish they were.  
  
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Three: Debated and Discussed A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Jackass.  
  
Bastard.  
  
Son of a bitch.  
  
She had called him all those names and more, and she had meant every hateful, bitter syllable. And at the time, in a twisted, selfish way, it had made her feel better.  
  
How could he presume to play God? "Absolute power corrupts absolutely," and Jed Bartlet of all people had succumbed to that temptation. How could the gentle, compassionate man she had loved for so long transform from Jekyll to Hyde without her seeing it? How could he lie next to her, touch her with such tenderness, celebrate the joy and ecstasy of joining their bodies, their very lives, then degenerate into some cold godfather who commanded the murder of another human being? It didn't matter that the other person was evil. It didn't matter that he deserved to die. It simply wasn't Jed's choice. He stole that right from God.  
  
She sighed and pushed a hand through hair that no longer needed a hand pushed through. Her eyes scanned the placid scene before her, emerald meadows framed by rich palates of creams, and reds, and purples as the New England flora reveled in the lushness of summer. The sudden flare of righteousness faded, and a disturbing shadow of honesty fell over her. Was that really it? Was she mad at Jed because he had executed a terrorist who had already killed hundreds or even thousands of people? Or was it because his decision led to the horror, to the unthinkable abduction of her child - of his own child?  
  
At the moment it didn't matter that she was assigning different levels to his sins. She knew which one could destroy them.  
  
In the midst of their agony, he had attempted a feeble explanation of that sin. "It was debated and discussed and agonized over for weeks - "  
  
But she'd had no patience for it. "Debated and discussed? I'm here. I don't remember that," she had retorted in the kitchen, not caring about the reaction of their two other daughters, refusing to acknowledge the anguish in his eyes. She wanted him to feel the anguish, to feel what she felt.  
  
"It was a difficult decision - " he snapped, the first spark of emotion he had shown in hours.  
  
"Made by you. Not us," she reminded him bitterly.  
  
"I did what I thought was necessary."  
  
"Your decision, Jed. Not ours."  
  
Leaving before they could really get into it in front of the girls, she had spoken to him perhaps five times since then, mostly short answers to his aborted attempts at communication. He sure as hell hadn't communicated with her when he decided to take a brutal step that put his family in danger. It was too late now.  
  
His decision. His fault. His burden.  
  
"I blame Jed," she had told Leo, and it was as much an intent to hurt him as Jed. Leo couldn't take the bullet on this one and she told him outright. She had no doubt he was an integral cog in the wheel of international intrigue, but as Harry Truman established, the buck stopped with the President. And this President had used his heavy hand to smite down one evil, only to discover ten more taking its place.  
  
He should have known.  
  
"He did this."  
  
Sucking in a deep breath, she willed her body to calm, to regulate its wild heart rate and deal with reality less emotionally. Purposefully, she kicked back in the porch swing, feet brushing the wooden flooring coming and going as she swung, looking for solace, for refuge. She scanned the scene again, breathed in the fresh, earthy scent of the farm. But even that failed to comfort. His farm. It was his farm, handed down for generations in his family.  
  
Funny, she hadn't told Jed she blamed him - not exactly. But she didn't have to. He knew. His tentative glances her way, his unfinished sentences, his painfully stiff posture. The way he seemed to brace himself any time she turned toward him. He knew. And part of her wanted to absolve him, to release him from the agony. But then she looked at Zoey, saw the bruises, inside and out, and she remembered.  
  
It was his fault.  
  
Also, she wasn't sure he wouldn't do it again, if given the choice. Wasn't certain he really understood what his actions had done, what they had cost his daughter.  
  
What they had cost his marriage.  
  
For the first time in 36 years she allowed herself to consider the true condition of their relationship. There had been strained times before, as in all unions, but never to the point that either of them so much as uttered the word "separation." And it still hadn't happened, but only because they weren't speaking to each other. She thought it, though, contemplated what kind of political fallout that would bring. It would certainly cause scandal, speculation, another media frenzy. And hadn't they had enough of that? She could wait until he left office. That would be better. Come and go in a respectable manner until then. But she could leave then.  
  
Leave Jed. Separate. Divorce.  
  
Instantly, her heart clenched, and she felt the hot sting of tears at her eyes, the sudden hole of emptiness in her chest. It was almost unimaginable that she would even be considering such an act. What would it be like to separate something that had become one so long ago?  
  
She was mad as hell at him, madder probably than she had ever been in her life, even after he screwed her on international television by announcing he would run again. And she admitted that at the moment she didn't like him very much.  
  
But she did love him. Would that be enough?  
  
It would just take a while, she knew, to sort things out. And maybe she and Zoey could stay at the farm until they both healed. She closed her eyes and leaned back on the hard swing. It would be a good long time before she was ready to go back to that place, to the memories, to him. But eventually, she would go back, one way or another.  
  
"Oh, Jed," she muttered wearily, "what the hell have you done?" No one answered her as her eyes fluttered shut and darkness seeped into her mind.  
  
"Mom?"  
  
Jerked awake, Abbey jumped from the swing, only momentarily disoriented until she saw the battered face of her daughter before her.  
  
"Zoey! Are you all right?"  
  
The young woman smiled, that sad, skittish expression she had worn since her return.  
  
His fault.  
  
"I'm okay, Mom," she assured her, a little impatiently. "There's a phone call."  
  
No. She wasn't ready, yet. "Tell him I don't want to - "  
  
"It's not Dad," Zoey told her, frowning slightly with the knowledge of what that response said about her parents' relationship.  
  
"Who - "  
  
"Uncle Leo."  
  
Leo? The last person she wanted to talk to - almost. How did he dare call her in New Hampshire? What would make him think she'd be even remotely interested in anything he had to say at that time?  
  
Her first instinct was to blow him off, let him sit there, waiting for an answer till kingdom come. But her temper almost overpoweringly craved a fight. She couldn't have it out with Jed. Leo was the next best thing.  
  
Teeth gritted for the confrontation, voice hard, she picked up the receiver. "Leo," she said coldly. Nothing else. Make him come to her.  
  
"Abbey - " he began, and instantly the anger melted from her. The crack in his voice, the pain in his tone hit her like a physical blow.  
  
"Leo?" Dear God, what is it?  
  
"Abbey, I - it's about - "  
  
"- Jed," she finished.  
  
"Yeah." 


	4. That's Old School: CJ

POV: C.J. Spoilers: "In the Shadow of Two Gunmen," "25," "7A," "Dogs of War," "Han" Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, but they are marvelous characters and I love to play with them.  
  
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Four: That's Old School A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Never in her life had C.J. answered the phone at two in the morning and have it be good news. By the time she actually lifted the receiver, she would have envisioned every possible scenario and how she would deal with whatever tragedy had just befallen someone she knew and loved. It was the burden of being female. Funerals were planned and music chosen in the three seconds it took to reach across the bed.  
  
Since she had been Press Secretary to the President, however, she had at least realized that all early morning calls didn't necessarily mean death. Most of the time, they meant there was some breaking story that might not play well for the administration and she had to be ready to deflect it by the time dawn broke.  
  
But the instinctive dread never left her, so as she fumbled from under the covers, her mind was already creating the dramas she would face.  
  
"'lo?" Her brain had formed the word clearly, but she figured her mouth didn't quite execute the plan. Didn't matter. It was enough.  
  
"C.J.?"  
  
Yep. It was Leo, as she expected. Could be any number of things. Terrorists? North Korea? The Stock Market crashed?  
  
"Yeah." That brain-to-mouth connection worked better, and she shoved her body up a little more against the pillows.  
  
"C.J., something's happened."  
  
Usually, Leo began these calls with something like, "We've got a situation," or "I need you to be ready for something." This was different. This was personal, she could hear it in his voice.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
He didn't answer immediately. That was never a good sign, either, like he was bracing himself to hear something he already knew, but didn't want to hear again. Finally, he said, "I need you to come to GW right now." The words were slow, deliberate, like Leo did when he was conveying an extremely important instruction.  
  
"The hospital? What - "  
  
"I can't really say over the phone," he emphasized, and she swallowed the sudden fear that jumped into her throat.  
  
It was the President. Otherwise, he could say. It had to be the President.  
  
"Is he - "  
  
"Right now, C.J."  
  
Oh God. Forcing her heart to beat again, she nodded, even though he couldn't see. "Okay. I'm leaving. Should I prepare - "  
  
"We'll talk when you get here." It was Leo in his crisis mode, and that's what scared her the most.  
  
Somehow she dressed, wiped on some make-up, ran a comb through her hair and was out on the darkened streets of Washington, D.C. within fifteen minutes. The familiar sights looked serene, almost ghostly as they were illuminated by haze-surrounded artificial lighting. The famous buildings in the distance stood like mausoleums to those statesmen past who shaped America with their actions.  
  
But she was only concerned about one statesman, one American, at the moment. She knew it had the be the President, even if Leo had never actually said. Was he dead, even as she drove wildly toward the hospital.?  
  
And what would they do if he was? Josiah Bartlet. The President of the United States. "The Real Thing," Josh had called him. What turmoil would the world be thrust into with the loss of his vision, of his idealism?  
  
True, she had seen that idealism crack under the blunt force of reality, had watched as he compromised, as he settled for "proportional responses" when she wanted him to burst forward and do the right thing, even if it wasn't the best thing. And she saw it on his face, which seemed more haggard every day. Heard it in his voice.  
  
When they had first entered the White House, the energy that fairly projected from him had jolted them all. They would change the world. They would make their mark on the universe. That rich voice, so unique, so smooth, had filled them with confidence, with anticipation of so many things.  
  
But in recent months that voice had changed. The spark, the lilt that had colored it, was missing, stolen away from them all by the constant burdens that pushed at him now.  
  
She had heard it only a week before, had listened to sadness bleed through in deeper tones as he lay on the Oval Office couch, hands behind his head, and shared a few moments with her.  
  
He knew how she felt, she had made her opinion - and her disappointment - quite clear. A young man wanted freedom, wanted to taste what they all had, what none of them had really worked for. A young man. A gifted man, who simply bore the misfortune of being born in the wrong country. And he had asked them for help. Had gone directly to the President himself to seek asylum.  
  
A simple request. A simple decision, to grant what we had tried to spread throughout the world for over 200 years.  
  
But apparently, it wasn't simple.  
  
"It's complicated," Leo had said, and even though C.J. had been around long enough to know what he meant, she still couldn't imagine her President, the man she had grown to respect and trust, denying such an American act.  
  
But it was complicated. And in the end, the President did the only thing he could, the only thing that would justify in his mind not immediately granting the request. He left it up to the musician, who had made a decision that was too selfless for someone so young.  
  
But the world had not fallen apart, so it was okay.  
  
Josiah Bartlet had not risen when she entered, had not even budged from his prone position on the couch, and that in itself bothered her. Maybe it was just because he had become comfortable with her. Maybe it was just because it was late, and they were all tired. But she saw in that decision a surrender, an admittance that the energy was gone. Just as the voice had deepened, so had the lines on his face, so had the regret in his eyes.  
  
And she didn't like seeing it. He was their star, their beacon. If that star faded, how would they find their way?  
  
But more than the loss of Josiah Bartlet their leader, she would mourn the loss of Jed Bartlet, their friend, their mentor, their father. Her father. She couldn't deny the closeness of their relationship, wouldn't want to. She loved Jed Bartlet, and it hurt even more to see what was happening to him personally than what she perceived as a loss of focus professionally.  
  
They had gotten through so much. Rosslyn, the MS scandal, re-election. He had persevered through it all, had shown them the solid strength they all relied on. Even the Republicans recognized what incredible sacrifice and courage it had taken to step down during Zoey's kidnapping.  
  
He was still "The Real Thing," she knew that. She had not doubted it, but that courage, which seemed able to withstand even the most violent forces from the outside, was being tested now by even greater inside forces.  
  
And C.J. knew from experience she was powerless to interfere. On that first day back, after Walken had left and the world seemed to be righted again, she had asked the President if the First Lady would be joining him as he addressed the country, assuring them of his strength, thanking them for their prayers, and urging them forward to continue their goals. She already knew the answer before he responded.  
  
No. The First Lady wouldn't be joining him. He had waved her off casually, saying that Abbey was with Zoey at the hospital, but he didn't meet her eyes, and she read enough in his body language to wonder how long it would be before Abbey really did join him again. The temperature in the Residence, which could fluctuate violently, had turned decidedly cold. Abigail Bartlet was furious with her husband, and when she took Zoey to New Hampshire, C.J. knew it was as much to help Zoey as it was to allow the First Lady time away from him.  
  
Maybe it was for the best, but C.J. couldn't help but wonder how good it was to leave the President alone. He had been the calm one, the one who didn't fall apart, who didn't burst into the Press Room to make a plea for his daughter, who didn't need the sedation. He had stayed in focus, had made the incredible decision to put the power in someone else's hands - the other party's hands, even - so he wouldn't use it selfishly. He had been the rock.  
  
But now he didn't have to be. And he was alone with time to reflect on the terror of those days, with time to let his mind dwell on his actions, on his responsibilities - on his guilt. With time to crumble.  
  
C.J. had seen it in his eyes. They all knew he felt it. And she had heard the rumors. The First Lady blamed him. He blamed himself. And now he had even more time to think about that.  
  
So she had sat with him after the concert, had told him in so many words that she knew his gesture of not canceling it was a risk, that he still put his faith in the good character of humans.  
  
But even that had backfired on him. North Korea stopped negotiations because the they didn't like the size of everyone's flags. He had turned his back on his own idealism, made the difficult decision to address the needs of the many over the needs of the one, and what had happened?  
  
She had left him, unable to give much comfort, unable to assure even herself that he had made the right choice. She understood. She was disappointed. And the funny thing was, so was he. She read it every line of his body. Disappointed in himself. Disappointed in the world that he had wanted to change.  
  
They seemed to have had more than their share of disappointments recently. And those disappointments were taking their toll.  
  
Or had they already taken it?  
  
As her chest tightened in fresh reminder of why she was headed to GW, she saw the lights ahead. Squealing around Washington Circle, she headed toward the new emergency entrance that had been completed since their unpleasant experience of Rosslyn. The ambulance lights flashed between 23rd Street and New Hampshire Avenue. New Hampshire Avenue? Was there some deep irony there?  
  
Born in New Hampshire. Died on New Hampshire Avenue? Was this as close as God could get him to home before He took him?  
  
Gritting her teeth, she chided herself for the fatalistic thoughts and fought back into Press Secretary mode. Find out what's happened. Try to figure out what's going to happen. Prepare to tell the world.  
  
But tell them what? 


	5. Taking the Bullet: Leo

POV: Leo Spoilers: "ITSOTG," "Posse Comitatus," "Night Five," "Jefferson Lives" Rating: PG Disclaimer: Most of the characters are not mine.  
  
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Five: Taking the Bullet A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Except for her husband, Leo knew he was the last person Abigail Bartlet wanted to talk to. He hadn't needed any interpretation for the chilly response he received in the curt snap of his name.  
  
"Leo."  
  
As a matter of fact, he had been more than a little surprised that she had even come to the phone. Surprised, but relieved. There was no way he would have told Zoey the news himself.  
  
But it didn't matter. It didn't matter how angry Abbey was with him, how disappointed she might be in Jed. None of that mattered at the moment.  
  
She was coming back. That was all that mattered.  
  
He didn't really have the time to stop and think, but he did anyway, allowed himself that one moment. Maybe it would save him later when the others arrived. A hell of a thing to be doing at two in the morning.  
  
He glanced around at the stoic Secret Service personnel stationed in carefully planned positions around the waiting room, their calm stances so unlike the chaos of that night after Rosslyn. This time, at least, they had no gunmen to find, no conspirators to hunt down. This time the assailant could not be isolated from the victim. They were one in the same.  
  
So they waited. Ron Butterfield waited, his lanky body looking as if he would rather be tracking an attacker instead of forcing himself to stand calmly by the trauma room doors. Charlie Young waited, his eyes haunted, his shoulders slumped with something that looked suspiciously like guilt. And Leo waited, because until he knew exactly what had happened to Jed Bartlet, that was all he could do. He had called Fitzwallace and Nancy, and had alerted Russell to be on standby. Russell. Dear God, were they about to turn over the country to that spineless compromise?  
  
"Jed Bartlet," he thought with a certain fury, "if you leave me with this mess - "  
  
Suddenly sober, he closed his eyes and couldn't stop the recent memories from reclaiming space in his brain. The frantic call by Charlie, the manic race back to the White House, the sight of the EMTs on the floor by the President of the United States, who lay, arms flung out, unconscious and bleeding on the seal of his office, the sirens wailing through the early morning streets, the stunned GW staff waiting for them with a crash cart in case it was needed.  
  
Why hadn't he seen this coming? Why had he not realized the impact Abbey's leaving would have on his friend? But he knew the answer. Jed Bartlet was a master at hiding his true feelings when he wanted. He had waved away Leo's inquiries about his wife, had lifted his shoulders in a non-committal gesture when anyone asked how things were going, how Zoey was doing.  
  
He wasn't sleeping. It didn't take first hand observation to figure that out. The heavy lids at budget briefing, the stifled yawns at Staff, the weary eye rubs, the stiff rotation of the body. He had seen it all before and it had taken Stanley Keyworth even to begin touching on the problem. This time, Leo didn't think it would be quite so easy as making the President admit his feelings toward his abusive father.  
  
But she was coming, at least, and he chided himself for ever doubting that she would. She was made as hell at him. She was perhaps even madder at Jed, but she still loved him. Of course she would come.  
  
He wondered if Zoey would come with Abbey. Her trauma was still raw, still so near the surface. Surely it would be doubly hard to deal with another crisis this soon. But he doubted she could stay away, waiting in frustrated darkness back in New Hampshire for someone to tell her how sick her daddy was. No, she would come, too.  
  
His eyes moved to Ron's, wordlessly communicating their fears. He knew Ron had fears, even if they weren't the ordinary fears of ordinary citizens. Ron didn't fear being wounded. He didn't fear dying, even. Ron feared letting down his President, but even more than that, he feared failing Jed Bartlet. Leo could see it, could tell that this agent was devoted to his charge. And he didn't blame him a bit. His charge was worth it.  
  
Glancing again at Charlie, he sighed and stepped over to the young man, dropping a hand onto his shoulder. The dark eyes that looked up at him held such blatant self-blame that Leo almost flinched.  
  
"Hey," he said softly. "It's okay. He's gonna be - "  
  
"You sure?" Charlie asked, but what Leo heard was, "How do you know?"  
  
The chief of staff didn't answer, couldn't answer. No, he wasn't sure. No, he didn't know. He just hoped.  
  
"I tried to catch him." It was barely audible, almost a whisper.  
  
"I know." What else could he say? I wish you had?  
  
"But I didn't think he'd want -- You know how he hates any attention like that." Still soft, but with a fondness warming the tone.  
  
Leo chuckled. "Except when he is holding court as the Trivia King."  
  
Charlie nodded, but didn't smile. Then, he closed his eyes and muttered something that Leo couldn't quite catch.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said, 'I should never have let her go.'" Anger spit the words out.  
  
The black humor in him wanted to tell Charlie to join the club, but he bit back the impulse. Deep down, Leo knew who was to blame. Despite what Abbey said about him not taking the bullet for the President, Leo knew whose fault this was.  
  
Jed had argued, had brought up that damned belief in moral absolutes, but he had turned him, had convinced him that it was the right thing to do.  
  
"It's just wrong," the President had declared on that ornate balcony, surrounded by the opulence of the New York theater. "It's absolutely wrong."  
  
And while Leo really didn't agree, he had said, "I know. But you have to do it anyway."  
  
The shadows that fell across them only deepened the lines that had suddenly seemed etched into that expressive face. "Why?"  
  
"Because you won."  
  
In the end, somehow breaking through the obvious pain it caused him, Jed had forced out the two words that began a series of events that would have consequences none of them could have dreamed of at the time. "Take him."  
  
"Take him."  
  
Take her. And they had.  
  
His fault. He had pushed it. He had talked him into it.  
  
But to the world, it didn't matter. To Abbey Bartlet, it didn't matter. To Jed Bartlet, it didn't matter. That decision rested on one man, and that one man would pay for that decision. Not with the wrath of the world, which had seemed to forgive, even condone his action. But with the disappointment of his children and the shattering fury of his wife.  
  
Just the night before, Leo had been one finger away from calling Stanley Keyworth. He could tell Jed was not sleeping, could see the fatigue wrapped around every muscle of his body. The sharp mind seemed dull, preoccupied. The quick wit slowed. The open warmth closed and chilled. The talent for sharp sarcasm twisted almost to uncharacteristic maliciousness.  
  
But Jed had assured him he was all right. That he had been sleeping plenty and that Zoey was coming along well. Abbey's name was never mentioned. So he had waited, told himself he would give his closest friend one more day to prove his words. Then he would call Stanley anyway.  
  
But Charlie's call changed those plans.  
  
"Mr. McGarry?"  
  
Snapping back to the present, Leo blinked and let his gaze rise to the green-clad figure before him. A young man, possibly a doctor if they were now giving out degrees to 12-year-olds, stood, clipboard in hand. Ron hovered nearby, not placing himself in the conversation, but making sure he was close enough to hear, nevertheless.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I'm Doctor Radford." He extended a finely boned hand.  
  
"How's the President?" Leo didn't have time for courtesies.  
  
Immediately, the physician read the mood of Jed Bartlet's chief of staff and dropped his hand. "He's stable. Still hasn't regained consciousness." His young eyes darted around the room and returned to Leo when he didn't find what he was looking for. "Doctor Bartlet here?"  
  
Somehow he managed to respond without a grimace. "No. She's on her way from New Hampshire."  
  
"Oh. I had hoped - " The disappointment flattened his voice. "Any of his daughters?"  
  
This time, Leo did grimace. It suddenly occurred to him that Jed was alone, at least as far as his family was concerned. Of course, Zoey was with Abbey. Ellie had returned to her studies and Liz had gone back to her home. Almost ashamed, he shook his head.  
  
"No."  
  
"Okay. Well, I guess you'll - " He stopped, but Leo heard the unfinished sentence. " - have to do - "  
  
"Yeah," he said, tone dry.  
  
"Right, well, until we get back all of the test results, I can't be certain, but we feel like we can rule out heart attack or stroke."  
  
Leo let out a breath, not aware before that he had caught it. Thank God for that, at least. He had heard Charlie's recount of the incident, of seeing the pain clearly on the President's face, of watching his features contort and his body fall. A stroke was the first thing that occurred to him and he could not bear to think of Jed Bartlet incapacitated in such a way. That brilliant mind held prisoner by its own mysteries. It was bad enough to imagine what might occur when - if - the MS progressed.  
  
"What would have made him pass out?"  
  
Doctor Radford shifted a bit, resting the clipboard on his thigh. "There are any number of conditions that might cause normally healthy people to lose consciousness. Hypotension, hypoglycemia, meningitis, pulmonary embolus - "  
  
"Pulmonary embolus?"  
  
"A blood clot in the lungs."  
  
Leo's own lungs struggled for breath. "Do you think - "  
  
"No, no. We did a blood gases test. No sign. I was just giving possible - "  
  
With effort, Leo managed not to growl. "What do you think made the President pass out?"  
  
An ironic smile twisted the doctor's lips. "My best diagnosis, without the complete battery test results back, is that the President is suffering from the combination of severe stress and exhaustion. The toll that those things have placed on his body, which was already compromised by the MS, have simply shut it down. He wouldn't do it himself, so his body did it for him."  
  
Now he tilted his head to the side and lowered his voice. "I can only imagine what the President has been going through these past weeks. Just the stress on any normal human being would be enormous. Just the trauma of what an ordinary father would go through - Add to that the tremendous responsibilities he has and the decision he had to make - well, it's amazing he stayed on his feet for this long." There was a bit of admiration in the tone.  
  
And add the fact that his wife has laid the blame for what happened directly on his shoulders, and that she has taken his daughter away, and that she won't even talk to him - Hell, now Leo wondered how Jed had even remained halfway sane.  
  
"You say he isn't conscious, yet?"  
  
"No. And that bothers me some. He should be coming around by now. We've pumped fluids in him and tried to balance his electrolytes, but he's not responding as quickly as I'd like."  
  
"Can I see him?" He knew Abbey probably should be the first one, but Leo couldn't say exactly when she would come. Plus, there were some things he needed to say to Jed in private, even if Jed couldn't hear him.  
  
The doctor nodded. "Sure, but he looks a little rough. Split open his cheek when he caught the edge of a table on the way down. We called in a good face man to stitch him up. Shouldn't scar much, but it's pretty swollen right now."  
  
Stress.  
  
Exhaustion.  
  
Scar.  
  
The impact of his own choices fell on Leo as he followed the doctor through the gray doors. Was it the right decision? Was it the only thing they could have done? What would have happened if they had not killed Shareef? Would Zoey have been safe in France right now? Would Abbey be at Jed's side, still teasing, still loving? And would the President never have had to make the wrenching decisions he had made?  
  
As they neared the ICU, his own guilt overwhelmed him and he almost choked on the sob that rose suddenly in his throat.  
  
"Oh God, Jed," he thought. "What have I done to you?" 


	6. Eagle's Down: Ron

POV: Ron Spoilers: ITSOTG, "Dead Irish Writers;" "25;" "7A;" "Dogs of War;" "Jefferson Lives;" " Rating: PG Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me.  
  
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Six: Eagle's Down A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
The First Lady was on her way. That was good news. At least, Ron hoped it was good news. Usually, the return of the First Lady from a trip prompted instructions to the agents that no one - and that meant absolutely no one - would disturb the President for the evening.  
  
It was no secret among the Service that Jed and Abbey Bartlet were a demonstrative, affectionate couple who took every opportunity to enjoy their marital relations. Agents on guard duty were under strict orders to ignore whatever audible evidences they might overhear from behind closed doors, but Ron had, on more than one occasion, heard a story or two about the enthusiasm with which the First Couple participated in those opportunities. Charlie Young and Debbie Fiderer even had a designation for it on the President's daily schedule. A quick get-away to the Residence was recorded for posterity as "barbecuing." And when the First Lady was in town, there was a great deal of cooking going on.  
  
But there had been a famine for the past few weeks. No barbecuing. Not even discussion about barbecuing, and when there was discussion at all, it was not the playful, teasing banter that usually surrounded their leader and his wife. It was hard, bitter, and sometimes cruel.  
  
When the First Lady had called Ron in after Zoey's rescue and asked about the security in New Hampshire as compared with the White House, he knew where she was headed. And he knew why. It wasn't just to protect her daughter, or to help her recover from the traumatic ordeal. It was to get away. To get away from the politics that controlled her life. To get away from the memories of those days of horror. To get away from the constant media attention.  
  
But mostly, it was to get away from him.  
  
Ron had taken on the task of making himself personally responsible for the life of the President of the United States. In order to do that, he had to know a great deal about the man, and be with him day in and day out. Ron had heard things and he had seen things that most people shouldn't see or hear. Some touching and joyful. Others disturbing and sad.  
  
He had seen the fear on Abigail Bartlet's face when she entered the trauma room of George Washington University Hospital on that warm May evening after Rosslyn. He had watched her bend over her husband, their heads close, and talk them both through the crisis.  
  
He had watched the President spend a good 45 minutes wandering the grounds outside the White House during the First Lady's birthday party, just to find the right words to tell how much he loved her. In the end, he told a funny story that didn't dip too deeply into the emotional realm. But Ron had seen their eyes, had felt the charge between them, and had known - even without the agent's report later - that he had found a way to show his love that evening.  
  
He had seen her swallow her pride and let go of the most important thing to her besides her family to pull them all out of the MS controversy.  
  
He had watched him commit the bravest and most unselfish act he had ever witnessed by giving up the most powerful position in the world because he felt it was the only way to save his country from his own parental emotions.  
  
He had seen her folded in his arms, head on his chest, her customary strength and independence submitting, for the moment, to his calm guidance and control, waiting for news about their daughter, waiting for it to be over. They held each other, leaned on each other.  
  
Until the story broke.  
  
Until Shareef.  
  
Then what he saw changed.  
  
He saw the stiff posture from that petite frame. He saw the fury in the eyes. He saw the accusation in the jaw. He heard, in the silence, the loud proclamation of blame.  
  
And he saw the guilt in his eyes. He saw the pain. He heard the whispered prayers, even though they were not meant to be heard by any earthly creature.  
  
But he saw the miracle, too, the rescue, the retrieval. And for a short time, mother and father held hands again, raced together to bring their lost child back into their arms.  
  
For a short time.  
  
Then she was gone, taking her away, too. And he was alone.  
  
It wasn't that Ron agreed or disagreed with what they had done. That wasn't his place. In the years he had known Jed Bartlet, he had come to realize he was perhaps the most moral man he had ever met. If he felt Shareef needed to die, Shareef needed to die. But, having witnessed the President's habit of taking guilt on himself, he knew it could not have been an easy decision.  
  
Why he didn't tell his wife, even when he knew the story was breaking, Ron couldn't say. Abigail Bartlet was a formidable woman, and one even he preferred not to cross, if at all possible. As powerful and strong as the President was, he still didn't envy him the task of confessing to the mother of their child that his actions might have led to that child's abduction and possible death.  
  
No, it wasn't his place to judge. Jed Bartlet judged himself much harsher than anyone else could have. Even his wife.  
  
So he had been alone. When the day was done, and the bustle of the West Wing had subsided for a few hours, he was alone, and God only knew what torments that sharp mind conjured.  
  
Ron knew he worked into the early hours in the Oval Office. Even when he finally dragged himself to the Residence, he didn't sleep. Agents reported the lights on or CNN playing almost to daybreak. But it wasn't his place to advise the President of the United States on his own health. Usually, the First Lady did that. But she wasn't there anymore.  
  
Still, he had seen the strength in Josiah Bartlet, had watched his resiliency overcome numerous obstacles, even the spectre of impeachment and resignation. But that had been only politics.  
  
This was personal.  
  
"Eagle's down."  
  
He had hoped never to hear that call again. Once was more than enough and Eagle had been "down" twice already in his tenure. The first time was the collapse in the Oval Office early on. The flu, they had said. And it was. But how much more had they discovered since then? The second time was at Rosslyn, even though no one called out the alert because they didn't realize it at the time.  
  
And they were still dealing with the third time. Charlie's call to the agent. The agent's call to him.  
  
Get a doctor.  
  
Get the paramedics.  
  
They had acted quickly, efficiently, and appropriately. But it didn't change the fact that Eagle was down.  
  
The splatter of blood kicked him in the chest. Never a good sign. But he already knew there was no breach, no assailant. No, this time Josiah Bartlet was the victim of a much more subtle enemy, one that Ron Butterfield was helpless to subdue.  
  
And now he trailed Leo McGarry as they made their way back to the trauma room where the President still lay, waiting with the eternal patience of the unconscious for the attendants to move him to the ICU suite he had already occupied one too many times.  
  
It struck him as ironic that they were the closest thing to family Jed Bartlet had with him. The bodyguard who was supposed to keep him physically safe, and the chief of staff who was supposed to keep him politically safe. Neither of them had done a very good job with their duties recently.  
  
But they seemed to be all he had at the moment.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet's on her way?" the young physician asked again as they neared the Presidential unit.  
  
"Yeah," Leo answered, short, sharp. Ron figured it was all the information he had.  
  
The First Lady was on her way.  
  
And then what? 


	7. She Knows You Like to See Her Strong: Zo...

POV: Zoey Spoilers: "ITSOTG;" "Commencement;" "25" Rating: PG Disclaimer: Most of these characters are not mine. They belong to John Wells, I suppose now.  
  
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Seven: She Knows You Like to See Her Strong A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
It was one thing she had never doubted in her entire life. One thing that never caused her the anxiety or concern that some of her friends had to face. Her parents loved her and they loved each other. They loved each other so much that it never occurred to her that anything could ever even crack their commitment to each other, much less split it wide open.  
  
If anything, she frequently found herself making excuses about why her parents seemed to be all over each other. It was on more than one occasion that she and a couple of girlfriends had come into their living room only to find her folks making out on the couch. She professed great embarrassment, but deep down it gave her security and warmth to know that the two people she loved most in the world loved each other so much. No, for twenty years she never questioned the strength of her parents' marriage.  
  
But at 21, doubt had blindsided her with unexpected fury.  
  
Dawn was just threatening to break as the motorcade entered the city. Zoey Bartlet caught her mother's stoic profile in the flashes of light that popped in and out of the limousine. She was seated upright, no longer needing to lie with her head in that comforting lap, protected from the arm that grabbed at her in her dreams. The dreams still came, but her body sensed the safety now, subconsciously knew that she was in danger no longer. Not physically, anyway.  
  
It was over, and it was probably good that she had no really clear memories of the ordeal. The doctors said the drugs in her system kept her senses dull. But the fear remained, as well as the harsh flashes of scenes that could have been real or from some action thriller she had once seen. They had all tried to help. Her sisters, her doctors, her parents. Charlie. And things were better, even if they might never be the same again.  
  
She had wanted it to be all right, had wanted to leap right back into the old Zoey. She wasn't afraid of anything, wasn't that what her father had always bragged? But she was. She was afraid of arms in the night, and she was afraid of assassin's bullets.  
  
And she was afraid of losing the one thing that had always been certain in her life.  
  
The most obvious clue was the sudden lack of touching. Her parents had always been tactile, had been drawn to each other anytime they were together. If they were in the same room, they were holding hands, or brushing shoulders, or sitting with thighs together, or even, on informal occasions, allowing those near them to witness a tender kiss or two.  
  
But they didn't touch anymore. They hadn't since she came back. No holding hands, no brushing of shoulders, no sitting anywhere close. It didn't take a genius to see what was happening, and Zoey had graduated Magna Cum Laude.  
  
She knew her mother blamed her father. She knew he blamed himself. What she couldn't figure out was how they couldn't see that they were both wrong. How they couldn't see the very obvious. It was her fault.  
  
She had caused it all. Falling for Jean-Paul, going to the bar, taking a drink. Her fault. Molly dying. Her father giving up the Presidency. Her parents' marriage disintegrating.  
  
Her fault.  
  
Her eyes followed the lines of the Washington Monument, the beacon to Americans and foreigners alike to the capital city of the most powerful country in the world. Sometimes it seemed so unreal, so unimaginable that her father ran that country, that he wielded such influence and power over the entire globe. He was just her father, after all. The same goofy man who had accompanied her on Halloween dressed like the first Josiah Bartlett, knee britches and all. The same man who sat cross-legged in the floor and provided the voice of Ken or any other male dolls that she wished to interact with her Barbies. The same man who had yelled at the referees when she got fouled in her soccer games and it didn't get the call. The same man who never missed a horse show, even if it meant flying back from his duties as a U.S. Congressman to see her. The same man who fairly bubbled with pride when he threw a White House chile party to welcome her to Georgetown for college. The same man who looked at her with such love and pride during her graduation that she thought her heart would just leap out right there in the middle of the crowd.  
  
The same man who had lain on a stretcher in the trauma room of George Washington University Hospital, a bullet wound in his side, joking and assuring her that he was fine and that everything was going to be all right. She had told him how brave he was and how well he had done that night. She meant it. She was so proud of him.  
  
And now look what she had done. Now he lay there again, no bullet felling him this time. Only the intensity of his own pain and guilt, pounding at him with no one to deflect it, no one to hold him up. And it was her fault.  
  
Her mother sighed suddenly and she cut her eyes toward her, but the expression had not changed. Zoey wondered what would happen when she saw her father, wondered if the rift would close. She had never seen her mother so mad before, had never seen them so ripped apart that they didn't even argue. But since she had left the White House, she was certain that they had not spoken with each other. Her father called occasionally, checking on her, but her mother never answered the phone and therefore never had to say anything to him, never had to hear his voice.  
  
The cars pulled up to the new emergency entrance to GW and their agents quickly opened the doors. Without a word, her mother slid out, chin up, face composed, always conscious of the press, the attention. She followed, not looking anywhere but forward, toward the doors, toward where he was.  
  
She had not seen Charlie since they had left, but now he met her at the door, taking her hand simply and squeezing it. Abbey walked past him with a nod, intent on finding someone who could give her the most precise information. Zoey took a moment to smile bravely, like her father would want her to do.  
  
"Hey," she murmured, eyes cast down for a moment before they found his again. In those dark depths she saw a strange mix of joy, weariness, and pain.  
  
"Hey," he returned. "You okay?" The question covered a variety of levels.  
  
"Yeah." And she was, at least for the main thing he needed to know about. "Dad?"  
  
The shadow that crossed his expression did not encourage her at all. He tried to be upbeat. He didn't succeed. "He's - I don't know, Zoey. I don't think he's - I don't think he's awake, yet. Leo's been back, but - "  
  
Her mother had given her the basic information. He had collapsed in the Oval Office and was taken to GW. Other than that, she knew little. Maybe it was time to find out. "What happened?"  
  
As Charlie recounted the late hours her father had spent, the sleepless nights, the overwork, she closed her eyes. He had worked himself into this, had disregarded his own health because no one was there to hold him accountable. And again it was her fault. She had taken her mother away from him, had allowed them to send her away when he needed her, needed them both.  
  
"Zoey," her mother called and motioned her back toward the double doors.  
  
"Go," Charlie told her. "I'll be here." And she knew he would.  
  
They followed Ron and the doctor, her mother asking questions that she only vaguely heard. But 21 years of having a physician as a parent had given her some knowledge and she recognized a few references. Facial laceration requiring stitches. Bruising, perhaps a slight concussion. Stress and sleep deprivation exhaustion. Possible optic neuritis. His glucose metabolism was low. The blood levels of immune cells and some kind of proteins called cytokines, had been altered, making him even more susceptible to infections. He was running a low grade fever. None of these things sounded good to her at all. She glanced at her mother, trying to see a reaction, but she was in full doctor mode and simply nodded as the attending physician recounted the symptoms.  
  
He had been placed in the same room as before, the ICU unit that allowed constant monitoring, both for medical and safety reasons. Leo stood over him, his face drawn and haggard. He stepped back when he saw them.  
  
"Abbey," he greeted simply. His eyes softened a little when he saw Zoey. "Hiya, Kid," he said and hugged her.  
  
Her mother gave him only the curt nod that courtesy dictated before he took his cue and left, head down. Zoey wanted to go to him, to tell him it wasn't his fault, but the need to see how her father was outweighed the gesture.  
  
Now she looked toward the bed and saw him really for the first time. Even after Rosslyn, after being shot, he had maintained his spirit and humor. This time, though, the color had drained from his face, leaving a chalky, pale hue in place of the usual healthy ruddiness. He lay on the bed, perfectly still, no movement except the regular rise and fall of his chest. An IV ran into his left arm, carrying the clear fluids to replenish whatever nutrients his body had been denied the past weeks.  
  
His left cheek was swollen and discolored, marred by black stitching that tracked across it. She cringed at the flecks of blood that still lingered on his face, despite the attendants' efforts to clean it off. It was hard to watch him lying there, such a contradiction to her image of him, strong and in control. She watched carefully as her mother stepped close to the bed.  
  
Abigail Bartlet didn't say anything, didn't call out his name, still didn't touch him. But she was there. That was a start, at least. Zoey couldn't stand by and just watch, though. She reached over and laced his fingers in hers, remembering the times he had done the same for her, folding her small hand in his larger one, pushing his strength to her. Maybe it was time for her to send some of that strength back.  
  
"Dad?" she whispered. He didn't answer, didn't respond at all. It didn't matter. She would talk anyway. "Daddy, it's Zoey. I'm here. Mom's here."  
  
Her mother shifted a little, but didn't say anything.  
  
She bent over him, brushed the hair away from his forehead. It seemed grayer than it had been just a week ago. "Listen, Dad, I need you to wake up, okay?"  
  
No response, no indication that he heard her at all.  
  
"I want you to know it wasn't your fault," she told him, and hoped that her mother was listening, too. "It wasn't your fault. You didn't want me to go with Jean-Paul in the first place. You and Charlie. I should have listened. You've warned me for years. I should have - "  
  
"Zoey." Her mother's hand rested gently on her arm and those eyes held pity. But that was not what she wanted right then, not what she needed.  
  
She shook off the touch. "No, Mom. I'm talking to Daddy right now." That was rude and she could feel her mother's grip tense.  
  
"Zoey, he can't hear you."  
  
"How do you know?" she snapped before she could stop herself. "Just because you don't hear him."  
  
That face hardened, braced and Zoey knew she had done it, had opened up the subject they had been tip-toeing around. "What are you talking about?"  
  
Well, she had started it. Might as well finish it. "You don't hear him. He's talking, but you're not listening."  
  
She shook her head, frowning. "Zoey, I don't know what you are saying. Your father and I haven't even spoken since - "  
  
"I know how long it's been. I may have been a little out of it for a while, but I'd have to be blind and deaf not to know what's happening to you two." The words spit out of her, carrying all the disappointment and fear she harbored.  
  
"Zoey, nothing's happening. It's just - we just need some time - "  
  
"No. You blame him for this, I know. Everyone knows. You blame him. Don't you know he blames himself? Don't you see what this has done to him?"  
  
That famous temper flared. Usually Zoey tried to avoid it. This time she welcomed it. "Zoey Patricia Bartlet," her mother said, voice tight, warning. "You don't understand everything that has happened - "  
  
"Yes, I think I do, Mom. Dad had a Qumari terrorist killed and they took me in retaliation and you blame him for it all."  
  
Her mother stared at her, unable to contradict the simple synopsis.  
  
"Don't you know that he feels the same, that he blames himself what happened? That you have just heaped the coals on his head when he had already dumped the entire furnace there?" It was risky, confronting Abigail Bartlet like that, but Zoey figured her ordeal had earned her a few liberties.  
  
"Do you see him?" She glanced back toward the bed and saw that her mother did the same. "Is that what you want? Mom, we don't know what's going to happen in the future. We don't know how long - "  
  
"Stop it!" The voice broke, whether in anger or pain she couldn't tell. "You have no idea - I didn't know what was happening to you - I didn't know if they were - what they were doing to you - I couldn't bear to think that they might be - "  
  
"Mother - "  
  
The façade had cracked, and her mother worked to hold it together. "And he knew - he knew all along that it was because of what he did. He didn't tell me. He didn't even let me know that - Don't you see? It was his decision that caused - " She stopped abruptly, voice strained and harsh, shoulders shaking.  
  
"Wait outside," her mother ordered, but the tone lacked its usual sharpness.  
  
"But - "  
  
"Please," she added, with effort.  
  
Frightened by the emotion she had just witnessed, Zoey nodded and eased into the hall after giving her father's hand one more squeeze. She hoped he felt it. Charlie met her, eyes questioning. She shrugged and led him to a hard couch, realizing as she sat that her entire body trembled.  
  
"Hey, you okay?"  
  
Taking a deep breath, she shook her head. "I don't know," she said, smiling slightly in that nervous way she had of coping with unpleasant things.  
  
"Zoey?" His hand covered hers, tried to still the tremors.  
  
With another quick smile to acknowledge his concern, she explained, "They don't - they aren't talking anymore, Charlie. They don't - touch anymore. And they always touched."  
  
He didn't need to ask who. She knew he must have seen it himself. Instead, he gripped her hand harder. "They will," he said, and she hoped the confidence in his voice was warranted. "It's been - hard. Your dad feels that - he thinks he - "  
  
"I know what he thinks."  
  
Charlie cleared his throat, as if he weren't sure of what he was about to say. "Your mom thinks - "  
  
"I know what she thinks, too. She blames him."  
  
The words came out with a bitter snap and she suddenly realized how angry she was at her mother, even though she knew how distraught she had been. But the connection between youngest daughter and father was strong. She was her father's child in so many ways. He could never fall from the pedestal she put him on. She could tease, she could complain about his protectiveness and doting, but Josiah Bartlet was a king in the eyes of his daughter. Nothing could change that, not even his wife's wrath on her own child's behalf. Perhaps especially not his wife's wrath.  
  
"Zoey, I can't even imagine what you went through. I don't really want to. It hurts to consider what they did or what they might have done." His voice broke and she raised a hand to cup his cheek. "But your parents. Your mother is always so in control, but that first night when she walked into the press room - "  
  
Zoey stared at him. No one had mentioned this before. "What are you talking about?"  
  
Realizing she didn't know, he tried to back away, but she pushed until he told her about the frantic First Lady, desperate to appeal for her daughter's safe return, plunging into C.J.'s press room, blinking at the barrage of flash bulbs until the press secretary and her own chief of staff pulled her out. Zoey choked back tears in astonishment, never having seen her mother like that, never having imagined that reaction. In truth, Charlie told her, it was her father who had remained calm, who had kept his head throughout the entire ordeal. Her father, whom she would have pegged as the one to go off the deep end if something happened to his little girl.  
  
"I didn't know," she murmured, dropping her head and squeezing her eyes closed. "I didn't know."  
  
His hand rubbed her arm gently. "Zoey, I'm so sorry I told you to go to the club. If I hadn't - if I had stayed with you - "  
  
"It was my fault, Charlie." Couldn't he see that? Couldn't any of them see that? "My fault. And because of me my father is lying in a hospital bed and my mother hates him."  
  
"Zoey, it's not your fault," he urged, the pain evident in his eyes. "It's not your fault. It's - "  
  
"Miss Bartlet?"  
  
They both looked up at the nurse's call and he fell silent.  
  
"The President is awake. Would you like to see him?"  
  
As she stood, Charlie's hand still holding onto her, she decided not to respond by observing how stupid that question was. Instead, she nodded, took a deep breath, and followed. 


	8. Here, For Now: Jed

POV: Jed Spoilers: "Jefferson Lives" Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.  
  
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Eight: Here, For Now A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
The first sensation Jed Bartlet had was hearing the distinctly unnerving beep of a heart monitor. And it occurred to his awakening brain that it was probably his heart being monitored. The second sensation was the thought that someone had decided to play a prank on the world and shift things just a tad out of focus. At least that was the way his eyes saw them. Squinting didn't help much, but he gave it a shot anyway, peering down his prone body to assess the situation.  
  
He lay in an all-too familiar hospital bed, sheet to his waist, chest mostly bare since the ubiquitous gown was pulled back to allow for the heart monitor pads. He winced when he noted they hadn't bothered to shave any patches of chest hair. It would smart when they removed the discs. He listened to the steady rhythm for a moment before deciding he was healthy enough to try something bolder than just breathing.  
  
All limbs seemed to be working adequately. No tingling, no numbness. With a grunt, he tensed his stomach muscles and propped his elbows behind him, immediately regretting the move when an ice pick of pain stabbed through his head. Okay, one problem identified. He dropped back onto the bed with another grunt and a grimace.  
  
"Stubborn."  
  
Startled, he turned his head toward the sound, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the brighter light beyond. The voice, the unexpected silhouette, blurred though it was, could not be mistaken. He knew them well. Nevertheless, recent events made him doubt his own vision.  
  
"Abbey?"  
  
Dear God, if she were there he must be at death's door. He quickly reassessed his condition.  
  
If he didn't move his head too much, the pain was bearable, although it still felt a little prickly behind his right eye. But he became aware of a dull throbbing in his cheek, and eased a hand up to investigate. It took only one ginger touch to determine he didn't want to do that again.  
  
"Like I said."  
  
He peeked again and confirmed the unlikely fact that his wife was, indeed, standing by his bed, a good two feet away from any possible physical contact with him, but there, nevertheless. Forcing down a swell of relief and anticipation, he did his best to respond with studied nonchalance, needing to let her set the tone.  
  
"Abigail." Damn it. He didn't mean for it to come out quite so sterile.  
  
She observed him for a moment, then said quietly, "You scared Zoey."  
  
An accusation? As if he had planned for this to happen?  
  
It suddenly occurred to him that he wasn't really sure what exactly had happened. His last memory was a vague blur of watching his youngest daughter ride her horse, quizzing Charlie on national parks, and lecturing on Greek poetry. Of course, he could have dreamed every one of those things.  
  
He chose not to respond. What good would it do, anyway? Maybe he wasn't dying after all. Even Abbey would refrain from the taunts in the face of certain death. At least he hoped she would.  
  
Now the voice shifted to her clinical tone. "Charlie said you were in pain before you passed out."  
  
At least the hate had dropped away for a moment. In fact, she allowed very little inflection in her tone at all. He shrugged, having no idea that Charlie was even there when he fainted. Really having no memory of fainting.  
  
"What kind of pain?" she wanted to know. Dry, like a doctor. Any doctor.  
  
Again, since he didn't remember the pain - But sarcasm would only irritate her, so he concentrated on how his body felt at the moment. Not so good.  
  
"Headache," he decided. Could have been, after all, and he still had one.  
  
"Focused or general?"  
  
Pick one. "Focused. Behind my eye." The words came on their own, and he knew it must be the truth.  
  
"Doctor Radford feels there may be some optic neuritis involved here."  
  
"Yeah." He knew the term. It came with the MS territory.  
  
"How do you feel now?"  
  
Like he didn't want to be quizzed on how he felt by a woman who had to work so hard to be civil to him.  
  
"Fine," he told her automatically. It was his standard answer. She never believed him.  
  
A skeptical brow arched. "Right. You dizzy?"  
  
They had been through this routine before. "No."  
  
"Weak?"  
  
"No." Wouldn't do any good to admit it.  
  
"Vision blurred?"  
  
"Uh uh."  
  
"Still stubborn," she declared softly and stepped farther away from him, turning to stare out the windows into the main room.  
  
He wanted to say something, needed to say something. He wanted to say how sorry he was, how hard it was to make the decision, how devastating it was to realize he had been the cause of suffering for his entire family. But he didn't know if she was ready, didn't know if he was ready.  
  
"I'm sorry you had to come back," he told her instead. And he really was. He didn't want her back like this.  
  
"I didn't have to come back."  
  
"What?"  
  
Still not looking at him, she shrugged. "I didn't have to come back. I chose to come back."  
  
With effort, he held down the hope that popped into his chest. Maybe she was ready. Maybe this was the time for them to fix things. But he needed more from her, needed her to tell him what was happening. "I don't know what that means."  
  
Now she did turn, and for the first time in weeks he saw a softening of that expression, a retreat from the harsh glares that cut him or the calm apathy that chilled him even more. His heart pounded as he waited for her to speak. The monitor echoed the increase.  
  
"It means I've got to face you sometime. I've got to face what's happened."  
  
"To Zoey?" But he knew that wasn't it.  
  
"To us."  
  
"To us," he repeated, fear twisting in his stomach. "Us." Whenever there was an "us" it usually wasn't good. "We" was much better than "us."  
  
Her eyes flickered away from his face, toward the wall, and a heavy sigh tugged at her shoulders. Finally, her voice came at a whisper, and it touched him more than all of the yelling had ever done. "I thought - I thought I knew you, Jed. I thought after 35 years I couldn't learn anything more about you. But I was wrong." Her arms crossed, hugging her body as if it gave her the strength to say what she needed to say.  
  
"Abbey - " She had to stop. He didn't think he could hear what she might be saying.  
  
"I understand the decision," she told him, looking at him again, and he frowned in surprise. "I know why Shareef had to be killed."  
  
What the hell -  
  
"And I don't question that choice. It was probably the right choice for the President of the United States to make."  
  
Stunned at this apparent 180 degree turn, he simply stared, trying to figure out what was next.  
  
"But it was never a choice that the Josiah Bartlet I knew would have made. Never a decision that would have even occurred to the man I married. That man valued life supremely. That man was almost called to the cloth. That man cried at the births of his children, and the deaths of his pets. That man made love with a passion and a tenderness that broke my heart every time he touched me. That man would have never made such a decision. Not that man."  
  
Tears streamed down his face, stinging his cheek. Her quiet declaration had kicked him in the gut. Nausea rose in his throat. She was right. Dear God, she was right. He had been that man. He had treasured life, not just his family's, but all humans.  
  
What was the Donne quote? "Any man's death diminishes me because I am involved in mankind." Any man. Even Shareef.  
  
How had he become someone else? How had he gotten to the point that he made such a decision, even if it was the right one for the President. How was it ever the right one for Jed Bartlet?  
  
"Abbey," he choked. "If I had known - if I had seen - "  
  
A slender hand came up to stop him. "No. If you had known, you would have done the same thing. You had no other choice. You are President of the United States." Her face remained composed, calm. He couldn't decide if it was better or worse than the anger that had hardened it for so long.  
  
And was she still accusing or giving him an out? He couldn't tell.  
  
Swallowing, he opened himself up. Might as well do it all now. "I know you blame me, Abbey." No revelation there. "You should."  
  
Something flashed behind those keen eyes, something ephemeral that he almost missed. "Zoey thinks I shouldn't."  
  
"Zoey?"  
  
"She just gave me what for because I blame you, because you blame yourself."  
  
A sudden urge to see his daughter washed over him and pushed his muscles to tense again, to attempt to sit. It was still a mistake.  
  
"Damn it," he groaned as he tried to keep his skull from disintegrating.  
  
This time, when he opened his eyes, she had moved closer. "Sharp pain?" she asked, not unkindly, but still without emotion.  
  
He nodded, regretted it. "Is it an attack?"  
  
Lips pursed, she sighed. "Maybe. At the very least you are suffering from sleep deprivation. Could have triggered a mild attack. You also did a number on your cheek as you passed the table in the Oval Office."  
  
Wincing, he probed the tender wound again. That explained it.  
  
"They promise a pretty scar."  
  
It would be a good deal prettier than the deeper scar he knew would never heal, the scar that even now festered under the uncertainty of what she was saying, what she was doing. "Abbey, I know I should have told you - "  
  
"We don't need to talk about this now," she decided.  
  
"When the hell will we do it, then?" He couldn't stop his own surge of anger from boiling over into the tone. She had started this. She had dragged their buried turmoil to the surface. She would damn well listen to him.  
  
"Not now." And the first sign of emotion colored that voice as she almost pleaded between gritted teeth. "Not now, Jed."  
  
"Abbey, are you - "  
  
"I'm here," she told him. "For now." Not an ultimatum, just a statement.  
  
His muscles screamed for him to reach out for her, to grab her hand and pull her to him and hold her until he could make her find that man again, the one who cried at his children's births and his pets' deaths, the one who made love to her with the passion and tenderness that broke her heart. But he knew she didn't want the same thing, so he swallowed back the burning impulse and dug his fingers into the sheet, letting the fierce urge bleed out through the compulsive grip.  
  
Don't walk out, Abbey. Don't go.  
  
"I'm sure Zoey wants to see you. I'll send her in." At the door she turned and gave him a nod. "I'll be around."  
  
Alone again with the persistent beeps of the monitor, he closed his eyes and pushed back the panic. He had never doubted Abbey's love for him, had never doubted his for her. They were joined by more than just physical attraction and fulfillment. They were one mind, one soul. At least they had been. But the mind had separated. And he had done it. It wouldn't take long for the mind to pry the soul apart, as well.  
  
His fault.  
  
"I'll be around," she had told him. "I'll be around."  
  
But for how long, he wondered. For how long?  
  
"Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."  
  
John Donne Meditation XVII Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions 


	9. Condemned to Death: Leo

POV: Leo Spoilers: all the stuff surrounding Shareef, and a brief nod to "Separation of Powers" Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, unfortunately.  
  
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Nine: Condemned to Death A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Leo watched as Abbey Bartlet stumbled past the agent by her husband's door, face pale, jaw tight, hand at her throat as if she might be sick any minute. He wanted to go to her, but he wasn't sure his comfort would be at all welcome, so her just watched as Zoey left Charlie's side and stepped forward.  
  
"Mom?" The alarm on her daughter's face seemed to give Abbey the strength to pull the mask on control back on.  
  
"He's all right," she assured her. "Go see him."  
  
He closed his eyes. The relief that swept over him was almost dizzying. "He's all right."  
  
But a deeper warning reminded him there were many levels of "all right." Physically, Jed might be out of danger, but emotionally, mentally -  
  
When he opened his eyes, Zoey had disappeared, and framed in his vision were Charlie and Abbey, their gazes locked. He tensed with a fleeting fear that Jed's body man would say something he shouldn't. After all, here was a young man who spent more hours with her husband than she did. He had opportunity to observe the President, to become familiar with his idiosyncrasies, his habits, his style. Such close contact had developed a strong relationship between them, a father-son bond. He had been with Jed the past week, had known he wasn't sleeping, had seen the danger brewing.  
  
He had been there. She had not.  
  
But the young man didn't say a word. Instead, he nodded deferentially to the First Lady and sat again on the stiff vinyl chair.  
  
Leo wanted to say something, felt the strange pull either to encourage or to berate. He couldn't decide which would give him more satisfaction, or which was more likely to get his head snapped off.  
  
It was not a stand off, no ultimatum had been issued, but he and Abbey stood facing each other like two gunslingers on the streets of Dodge City.  
  
"Leo," she acknowledged, finally.  
  
"Abbey. How is the President?"  
  
"He should be all right, with some rest."  
  
"Yeah." He shifted his stance, just for the sake of breaking the stiff posture between them. "I'm glad you came."  
  
She laughed, no humor in the sound. "I'm not sure Jed is."  
  
A brow arched in question. "Sure he is."  
  
"No. Not now. Not after - "  
  
"Abbey?"  
  
He could see that she didn't want to do this, didn't want to talk to him, the man who she must know had played such a heavy role in this whole mess. But she had no one else, and the words just came.  
  
"How could he do that, Leo?" she asked, her voice thick, her eyes watering.  
  
It was probably a rhetorical question, but he answered anyway. "It was a difficult - "  
  
"Don't tell me how difficult it was, Leo. Don't tell me that." The fire that blazed from her tone burned him, and he fought not to recoil physically. But almost as quickly as it had come, it seemed to die and the tone that came next held only sorrow, defeat. "He doesn't hunt. He doesn't even like to fish. We'd have snakes in the barn occasionally and Jed wouldn't shoot them. He'd catch them and take them to the other side of the river and let them go. Snakes."  
  
She turned anguished eyes to the chief of staff. "How in God's name could he have killed a human being?"  
  
"Shareef was a monster, Abbey," Leo argued. "He deserved - "  
  
"Don't tell me what he deserved," she spat. "Who are you to decide that? Who is Jed? Last I saw he wasn't walking on water or turning it into wine."  
  
He knew what he should do, knew that he would be better off just letting her vent, keeping silent. But he couldn't. He couldn't let her by with crucifying Jed, with condemning without knowing all the facts.  
  
Leo McGarry prided himself on being in control. It was the main thing that had kept him sober for so long. But he felt that control crumbling as he faced her fierce accusations against Jed. She needed to know some things. Jed wouldn't defend himself. He would try.  
  
"How would you know?" he asked, voice hard, but low. He didn't want to attract any more attention than they already had. The agents feigned ignorance, but they had to have heard.  
  
"What?"  
  
Too late to take it back. "How would you know if he walked on water or turned it into wine? You'd have to have been here to see that."  
  
That stung, he could tell, but she didn't lose the fire. "Zoey needed - "  
  
"Zoey needed her parents. She needed both of them."  
  
"She needed to get away from this damned fish bowl that is ruining her life!" They were close, close enough for him to see the danger in her eyes.  
  
But he was committed now. "You mean ruining your life," he corrected. "Who cares about anyone else's? Who cares about Jed's life, which by the way is pretty screwed up right now. Do you even care, Abbey?"  
  
The sharp crack was already fading and the red mark welling by the time they both realized what she had done. His face stung from the impact, but Leo refused to lift a hand to rub it.  
  
"Oh God," she breathed, hand at her throat again.  
  
They stood for a moment, stunned not only at the slap but at the intensity of the emotion charging the room. He glanced around. Charlie stood, mouth open, unsure of what to do, torn between his boss's best friend and his boss's wife. Finally, he mumbled something unintelligible and hurried through the doors toward the main waiting room. The agents continued their unbroken stares straight ahead, but their stances had tensed subtly.  
  
Her energy fading, Abbey dropped into a chair and lowered her face to her hands. In a muffled voice she said, "He broke the basic commandment of life. He had someone killed."  
  
"A terrorist who - "  
  
Shaking her head, but still not lifting it, she groaned, "I know who it was. I know you think that's justification enough, but it's not. I know it. And Jed used to know it. Dear God, I don't even recognize him, anymore. What has he become that he can just order - "  
  
He saw an entry, a chance to reach her, so, with no little effort, he squatted in front of her and peered up into her agonized face. "Listen to me, Abbey. Can't you see what's happened? Can't you see that he is tearing himself apart over this? Over Zoey? Over you?"  
  
"Yeah. I can see." She was bitter, couldn't keep it from washing over her words. "I can see. He's admitted guilt, and he thinks that will make thing all right. It will make up for the bruises and broken bones his own child had to endure. For the nightmares, for the screams in the middle of the night. Well, he can't fix that, Leo. He can't take back what happened, even if he wants to."  
  
"He doesn't - "  
  
"He does. He's always been that way. He thinks he can fix anything." She stood, pulling away from him with a jerk and walking a few steps away. "Well he can't. He caused this and he can't fix it."  
  
"Zoey is going to be all right," Leo observed, hoping it was true.  
  
"I'm not talking about Zoey."  
  
Dear God. What was she saying? Was she saying that she and Jed -  
  
"He stands by his decision. He regrets what happened, but he doesn't regret doing it. How do I know he won't just keep on getting rid of anyone who doesn't submit to the United States, who doesn't follow blithely along with what Jed Bartlet says do?"  
  
He felt the blood rushing from his face, and couldn't stop the moan that bubbled from his lips. She stopped, her own expression startled and a little frightened. "Leo?"  
  
Before he could stop himself, he had strode toward her, grabbed her shoulders hard, and drawn her square to him, eyes blazing. "You think he doesn't regret this, Abbey? You think he would do it again? Let me tell you something. This has eaten at him for almost two years. This has absolutely ripped him apart. He didn't want to do it. He fought me, he fought Nancy, he fought Fitzwallace. Do you know what he told me? He said it was wrong. It was absolutely wrong."  
  
She flinched, almost as if he had hit her, and the pain on her face made him pause. But only for a moment.  
  
Leo plunged on, not caring if he revealed any state secrets in the process. "Shareef tried to blow up the Golden Gate Bridge. He had already headed attacks that claimed American lives, and Egyptian lives, and British lives, and Qumari lives. He was a bad man, Abbey. He needed to die and Jed was the only one who could save his future victims." He was panting now, sweating in his crumpled suit.  
  
"I have known Jed Bartlet for over thirty years. I have never seen him agonize over such a decision. Not even deciding to run for President. Not even stepping down while Zoey was missing. This tore him up. And not just because he was going against every principle he had ever believed. It tore him up because he knew what you would think. What you would say. He was afraid that it would change him in your eyes."  
  
She turned away from him, clutching at the rosary he had just now noticed in her fingers. He dropped his hands, clenched his fists to try to calm their shaking.  
  
"Zoey has always been Jed's little girl. You've told me that before. What do you think it did to him to know that her suffering, her pain, her fear was a result of something he did? What sheer torture do you think he put himself through?"  
  
"He wasn't the only one," she offered, but even that truthful declaration sounded weak.  
  
"No," Leo admitted. "No, but you didn't cause it, and when it was all over, you had Zoey to hang onto. She had you. Who did Jed have? You left, took her away - "  
  
"For her own good."  
  
"Agreed. But he knew he wasn't welcome in his own home anymore."  
  
"He could have come - " she started, but faltered.  
  
They both knew he couldn't.  
  
"I asked him not to," she whispered. "I told him not to. And he didn't."  
  
"No. He wouldn't. Not if you didn't want him." He laid it out that way, phrased to gage her reaction. Did she want him still?  
  
She turned back to him now, and her face was splotched with tears. "I don't know if I can forgive him, Leo. What he did - what he did to her, to us - "  
  
"What he did to himself," he reminded her.  
  
She didn't argue, but repeated, "I don't know if I can forgive him."  
  
"Then you condemn him to death." As soon as he said it, he knew it to be an absolute truth. "Because he can't survive without you, Abbey."  
  
Not giving her a chance to respond, not completely sure he even wanted to hear her response, he turned and followed Charlie's exit down the hall, his heart aching at what he had said, his stomach churning as he replayed the scene. He had hurt her. But she had hurt Jed, and somehow he wanted her to know how it felt.  
  
And then he felt the tears, tears that he had shed only a few other times in his life. Tears for the destruction of a relationship he thought would never break. Tears for the fall of a giant he thought would never falter. Tears for the burden of a friendship that would certainly bear the weight of such a monumental sorrow.  
  
His face must have reflected his anguish because as he looked up he saw the horror in C.J.'s eyes.  
  
"Leo?"  
  
He couldn't speak, was afraid he wouldn't be able to make a sound, but it scared the hell out of her.  
  
"Oh, God, Leo!" she gasped. "The President? Is he - "  
  
Damn. He had forgotten. The press secretary had been going back and forth between the hospital and the White House. Shaking his head, he fought past the emotion and took her hands. "No, C.J. He's okay. Not great, but okay."  
  
Shoulders slumping in relief, she let out a hard breath. "Thank God. Oh, thank God. I was so afraid - when I saw you, and you looked - " She stopped, eyeing him carefully. "Are you okay, Leo?"  
  
"Yeah. I was just - I was just talking with Abbey," he explained simply, hoping she'd leave it at that.  
  
Comprehension flashed over her face. "She's leaving him." It was a statement, not a question.  
  
Leo honestly didn't know if it was the truth, but he couldn't deny the very real possibility. He shrugged. "I don't know."  
  
"Where is she?"  
  
Oh God. It was C.J. in her passionate mode, in her "take on the world" attitude. He figured she'd have a better chance against the world than against Abbey Bartlet. "C.J.?" he warned.  
  
"She can't do this, Leo. Doesn't she see what's happened to him? Doesn't she see that he is falling apart in front of all of us?" Her breath caught in that quick break of emotion characteristic of her. "I have to stop her."  
  
"C.J. - "  
  
But she had torn past him before he could stop her. In truth, did he even want to stop her? What harm would it do now?  
  
Unless Abbey killed her. Then they'd be in trouble. 


	10. Protector of the President: CJ

POV: C.J. Spoilers: Up through 4th season, plus "Jefferson Lives" Rating: PG Disclaimer: I did not create these characters, but I love them.  
  
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Ten: Protector of the President A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
She was going to get fired, there was no doubt about it. This would be her last act as press secretary to the President of the United States. And the ironic thing would be that she was doing it for him. Her allegiance was to Josiah Bartlet, and she would protect him to the end - even if it meant that Abigail Bartlet tossed her out on her ass.  
  
"She's leaving him," she had told Leo, knowing from his face it was true. Knowing those three words proclaimed the death sentence for Josiah Bartlet. Knowing that she had to do something, that she had to stop this tragedy from destroying not just one man, but a country.  
  
C.J. Cregg had managed to slow her heart rate enough to breath regularly by the time she entered the private waiting room, guarded not so inconspicuously by a strong contingent of Secret Service. But their presence merely reminded her of why she was there, why HE was there. Her thoughts drifted back to the glimpses she had gotten of him in the past weeks. The drawn face, the haunted eyes, the hunched shoulders, the absence of mirth, of mischief, of warmth. This was the destruction of a man who, above all others, deserved not to be destroyed.  
  
And now, pulling up in the middle of the room, she was looking directly at the main cause.  
  
She stared at the back of the petite form for a long moment, noting that the First Lady seemed a bit disheveled, a loose jacket replacing the familiar smart suit coat, faded jeans displacing the short skirt, hiking books instead of three-inch pumps. She looked out the window, oblivious to anyone's entrance, lost in some tumultuous world of her own. For a moment, C.J. felt pity for her and knew she would hate that as much as her husband did.  
  
Then she remembered: Abbey was leaving him. After everything they had been through. After Rosslyn, after Mrs. Landingham's death, after the MS disclosure, after the censure, after the triumph of the debates and the victorious election. After the torture of Zoey's abduction, after the agony of knowing his actions led to it, after handing his Presidency to the enemy, after the burden of bearing the harsh accusations from his entire family.  
  
After all this, she was leaving him.  
  
She wanted to scream, to shake the First Lady, to ask her what the hell she thought she was doing. But her brain warned her to play it calmly, to make the diplomatic approach, to appeal to the logic of the situation. Be subtle. Be reasonable.  
  
Okay, deep breath. Easy now.  
  
"What the hell do you think you are you doing?  
  
All right. That wasn't quite how she had planned the moment. Someone had jumped right in there and taken over, and it sounded suspiciously like the soon-to-be-former press secretary to Jed Bartlet. So much for listening to her brain.  
  
The First Lady spun around, eyes wide, jaw dropped. C.J. couldn't tell if she was reacting to the sound or the words or both. It didn't matter, though. The gauntlet had been thrown.  
  
"Excuse me?" An innocent response, unless you saw the daggers in her eyes.  
  
Well, hell. She was toast anyway. Go for it. "I, uh, I'm pretty sure I said 'what the hell do you think you are you doing'."  
  
Now those famous green eyes narrowed and Abbey Bartlet stepped toward her, arms crossed, mouth pursed. When she had drawn within five feet of the taller woman, she said, "That's what I thought you said, too. What the hell ARE you doing, C.J.?"  
  
Getting fired.  
  
"Um, that's not really what I intended to say, Mrs. Bartlet," she offered, not as an apology, but because it was the truth. Abbey Bartlet, herself, had advised her once that the truth would do it every time.  
  
"Really?" She dealt sarcasm as well as any of them.  
  
"Yes. See, my plan was to, uh, well, Leo said that - " She broke off, furious with herself for faltering, but the First Lady was a formidable force, even though she was just standing there and even though C.J. had almost a foot's height advantage on her. As Jed Bartlet had proved many times, power and presence doesn't necessarily rely on physical stature. Gritting her teeth, she reminded herself that she possessed a bit of presence herself.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet, I serve at the pleasure of the President," she began and noted the confusion that crossed the older woman's face.  
  
"Okay - " At least she was letting her talk.  
  
"Part of my job is to protect the President. Usually, it's from bad press, or irritating reporters, or hot-headed staffers who speak out of turn on Crossfire."  
  
"I know that, C.J. Has someone screwed up on Crossfire?"  
  
With effort, she ignored the comment. "But sometimes it's from threats even closer. And I have to say that I've failed him this time, Mrs. Bartlet."  
  
She could see it was not where the First Lady thought she was going. She had the upper hand, if only for a moment.  
  
"What are you talking about, C.J.?"  
  
"He's in danger, ma'am. He's in great danger, and I can't do anything about it."  
  
"C.J., I'm sure you're making a point, but for the life of me, I'm not seeing it. You have something to say, say it." This was vintage Abbey Bartlet. To the point.  
  
With a steadying breath, she laid it out. "Your husband is the President of the United States, Mrs. Bartlet."  
  
"Really?"  
  
Again, sarcasm would not deter her. She had that very weapon in her own arsenal. "When he took that oath of office, he promise to 'preserve, protect, and defend.'"  
  
"I seem to recall being present." Those eyes flashed again. Only the boldest - or the most foolish - would plunge on. C.J. continued.  
  
She wanted to ask what had happened to that, to being present, but it would be off subject and she needed to get through. "I have watched him 'preserve, protect, and defend' the Constitution and all of us for over four years, now. I have seen what it takes out of him to do it. I have seen the war between Jed Bartlet, the man, and Josiah Bartlet, the President."  
  
"C.J., if you're planning to lecture me, I think I know what my husband has sacrificed to be - "  
  
She cut her off, doomed anyway. "Every single day he faces decisions that impact the entire world. How many people can say that? One word from him sends stocks zooming or crashing, armies advancing or retreating, governments rising or falling. One word. What incredible power that is. What an incredible responsibility. What an incredible burden."  
  
This time, the First Lady didn't speak when she paused. Only watched, her face dark, her eyes hard. But she had not thrown C.J. out yet, and she was still listening.  
  
"He made the call about Shareef because he had to. As Josiah Bartlet, he had to take on the burden of sacrificing one life to saves thousands. As Jed Bartlet, he had to take on the burden of knowing that's what he had done."  
  
Now the hard wall came up, and the First Lady lifted her chin. "This is none of your business, C.J."  
  
"As protector of the President, ma'am, I think it is."  
  
"As protector of the President? What have you done for him? What have any of you done except force him to be someone he isn't? Twist him into situations that tear him apart, that take him away from us."  
  
From me. C.J. heard the unspoken addition. She swallowed, watching the emotions play across that elegant face before Abbey gathered herself again.  
  
With obvious control, the First Lady took a breath and said, "You've protected him enough, C.J. He's made his own choices. He's on his own now."  
  
"I'm not protecting him from those things, Mrs. Bartlet."  
  
Those eyes looked at her, curious, wary. "What you are protecting him from?"  
  
A beat. Deliver the clincher. "You."  
  
She wasn't entirely sure she would have another chance to say anything, especially not if the Secret Service agents removed her bodily from the room. But no one moved. No one spoke. The First Lady had frozen, eyes boring into her. C.J. felt a moment of fear. Not physical fear, but fear that she had just destroyed her own relationship with Abbey Bartlet and that she would lose what she had with the President, too, since she would probably never see him again after today.  
  
Deep breath. Too late to turn back now. "Mrs. Bartlet, I know this is not really my place - "  
  
"No, it is not." The tone was cold, measured.  
  
She had been told before, both by Abbey and by the President, that they didn't need a marriage counselor. They may have been right then. They were wrong now.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet, you haven't been here recently to see - "  
  
"Again, Ms. Cregg," the First Lady said, and the warning signs were clear, "I don't believe this is your place."  
  
"Abbey," she appealed finally, hoping the genuine emotion in her voice bought her a few more seconds.  
  
It worked. The First Lady pursed her lips and waited.  
  
"I can't imagine what you and the President have gone through. I can't even fathom what you were thinking, what you were feeling."  
  
"No, you can't," she agreed.  
  
"But I saw. I saw the cool, controlled Abigail Bartlet frantic with worry, consumed by fear. I saw a mother desperate to do anything to save her child. I saw a father struggling to choose between two impossible positions and make the only choice he could, an incredibly unselfish and noble choice that saved a country and his daughter. I saw a family torn apart by the actions of evil people."  
  
"C.J., if you think this is helping - "  
  
"Please, just let me say this."  
  
Her silence was permission.  
  
"And then, miraculously, I saw a child returned, a family reunited, a country spared the loss of its leader. We thought things would be all right. But they aren't, are they, Abbey?"  
  
"Okay, here's where you're out of your jurisdiction - "  
  
"They aren't. I know you blame the President. Everyone knows. And I can see how you would do that. I can see how the pain and the trauma would make you want to lash out at the person you could identify as the cause of that pain."  
  
"C.J., I'm warning you - "  
  
"He blames himself. Can't you see that? Have you gotten a good look at him lately? Have you seen what this has done to him?"  
  
"This is not your job, C.J."  
  
"Probably not for long, I know. But as long as it still is for a few more minutes, I'm going to say this." Sucking in another breath, she continued. "He knows what his decision cost. He knows that he was the catalyst that put into motion the abduction of his own daughter. He knows that he risked his family with that one call. And he knows if it happened again, he'd do the same thing. That's because he is the President of the United States, and sometimes Jed Bartlet has to sit down and watch Josiah Bartlet stand up to do the hard stuff."  
  
The First Lady had turned away from her now, and C.J. wished she could see her face, to read her expression. But the stiff shoulders told her enough. Finishing out her final duty for Josiah Bartlet, she continued.  
  
"But at the end of the day, he had one thing left, no matter what had happened. No matter how hard the decisions. No matter how painful the responsibility. He had one thing left."  
  
Abbey still didn't move. C.J. played her last card.  
  
"You, Abbey. He had you. And that made it all right. That made everything all right."  
  
The shoulders lifted once, then settled back hard. Still silence.  
  
"We have all admired what you have together. All of us. No one can be in a room with the both of you and not feel the electricity, the connection, the passion. I envy you such a relationship. It's what I used to dream of having, what so few people have. I think maybe I've missed my chance, but I can't stand by and see you throw that away. I can't watch you do this to him. To yourself."  
  
One more shot. She could tell her time was growing short. This might be her last chance. Their last chance.  
  
"I know you love him, Abbey. You may be furious with him, disappointed in him. But you still love him. And we might ask a lot of him, we might expect more of him than you want to give, but that's because we don't want to lose this chance, this rare opportunity for a truly great man to do great things. There are no other Jed Bartlets out there. We won't have this chance again."  
  
She sighed and ran a hand across her forehead. "But we also don't want to lose him. I don't want to lose him. I love him, too, Abbey. He's not just my boss. He's my friend. He's - he's - I can't even really put into words what he is to me. To all of us."  
  
Deep breath. Final plea. "So I'm asking you please not to do this. Please. And - that's - all I have to say."  
  
The room remained silent for at least a full minute. C.J. searched for something else, for some magic word that would convince, that would persuade, that would heal. But nothing more came. She knew she was finished. Whatever happened now, she had done all she could.  
  
Finally, the First Lady turned, slowly, with precision. Her face was unreadable, her eyes hard. "I think maybe you need to go now, C.J." Her voice was just as precise as her posture.  
  
Yeah, go clean out my desk. I got it.  
  
With only a slight hesitation, C.J. nodded once. "Yes, ma'am."  
  
Regardless of how heavy her heart was, she was satisfied that she had done her duty, perhaps her final duty. She turned, head high, shoulders squared, and walked from the room. 


	11. Not That Man: Jed

POV: Jed Spoilers: "The Crackpots and These Women;" "Two Cathedrals;" "Election Night;" "Jefferson Lives;" "Abu el Banat" Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. They belong to - well, know who they belong to.  
  
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Eleven: Not That Man A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
The world was still slightly out of focus for Jed Bartlet. He knew it could be any number of things. The doctor - he either never knew or had forgotten his name - said he had a slight concussion from the fall. Or it could be the fever - he was still running just below 100. Or - and this was the one he didn't want to acknowledge - it was optic neuritis, the harbinger of an impending MS episode.  
  
Blinking didn't help, hadn't helped yet, but he found himself trying anyway, wanting to look at his daughter's face clearly. Zoey smiled down at him, that innocent, pure grin that, if pushed, he would have to admit came from him. Her fingers entwined in his, not quite the same feel as when she was five, but a good sensation, nevertheless.  
  
Her presence was a balm to sooth the open wound that Abbey had gouged. Not that he blamed his wife. Not at all. It was his fault. He didn't expect any mercy from her - or from God for that matter. And he surely wasn't going to allow it from himself.  
  
But he did thank God, at least, that Zoey was there. Alive and almost herself again, the bubbly, happy little girl around whose finger he had been completely wrapped since he first held her, still slippery from birth. Abbey might be lost to him, but he still had Zoey. He knew she would be there.  
  
"Charlie's worried sick," she told him, smiling fondly at her own mention of the name.  
  
He tried to smile back, but stopped abruptly as the sharp pain shot through his cheek.  
  
"Hurt?" she asked, her own smile faltering, her hand squeezing his a little harder.  
  
"Not bad," he lied. "Charlie's a good boy."  
  
He wondered how Zoey felt about her former suitor now, wondered if there was a chance she would allow him back into her life. Regardless of the pseudo-threats he had made regarding the 82nd Airborne and dungeons, Jed acknowledged, if only to himself, that he wouldn't mind having Charlie Young as a son-in-law. He sure beat the hell out of "The Frog" - or even Doug for that matter.  
  
But Zoey didn't commit to anything. "Yeah," she said simply and smiled again.  
  
He let his gaze connect with that of his youngest child. She would always be a little girl in his eyes, more than Liz or Ellie, even though he loved them fiercely. But they grew up so fast. Liz was always the responsible one, always the worrier, always the rule follower, old even in kindergarten. Ellie was the solemn one, the serious child, the one who inherited the stoic Bartlet genes that Abbey had worked so hard to break through in him. But Zoey. Zoey was fun, witty, the risk-taker. She was what he had wanted to be as a child, but had never had the freedom.  
  
"Dad?" Her voice was guarded, a little tight, and he realized his silence worried her.  
  
"Zoey - " he started, completely unsure about what he was going to say.  
  
She saved him the effort. "I'm okay, Daddy," she assured him. "Really."  
  
The tears burned his eyes. He wanted to apologize, to ask her to forgive him for what he had done, for either being so naïve or so arrogant that he didn't even consider what his decision might do to his family - to his baby.  
  
She must have read his feelings, his intent, because she clutched his hand and swept down to place a gently kiss on his forehead. "It's all right."  
  
Absolution. Forgiveness. He should be relieved, grateful. But it didn't help. He didn't expect anything else from her. Still, he nodded, pressing his lips together tightly.  
  
Keeping her tone light, not allowing him to take on any more guilt, she asked, "You need anything? Some water or jello or something?"  
  
"No." He closed his eyes. The pain medication that dripped through his IV was kicking in, twisting the room eerily. Better enjoy it now. He knew that the doctors would have him off it before long to avoid slowing down the healing process. It took some focused effort to re-open his eyes and speak again. "I think I'm gonna - " What was he going to do? The thought abandoned him.  
  
"Sleep?" Zoey suggested.  
  
"Sleep." Yeah. That was right. She didn't graduate magna cum laude for nothing.  
  
Sleep. For a little while, anyway. He'd just say goodbye to Zoey -  
  
But she wasn't with him any longer. No one was with him. He was alone in his office, the Oval Office, except it looked more like the State House in Manchester. And suddenly Mrs. Landingham's voice was calling him over the intercom, but he only stared at it. He didn't know how to work it. No, wait, it wasn't that he didn't know how, it was just that he hadn't learned yet.  
  
He opened his mouth to tell her, but Debbie Fiderer burst into the room, flowered caftan flowing around her. "Line One gets me," she reminded in her no-nonsense way.  
  
"I can place my own phone calls," he protested again.  
  
But she remained unperturbed. "Soon you might not necessarily remember that you did - "  
  
"I will," he insisted then as he hadn't before, but she just smiled and floated back to Mrs. Landingham's desk.  
  
His head swam and he groped for the chair back, bracing against it to remain standing, squeezing his eyes shut as the disembodied voice danced around him, now in the real Oval Office, wind whipping outside the open door.  
  
"Your father was a prick who could never get over the fact that he wasn't as smart as his brothers." Or his son, maybe, she left unsaid.  
  
"No!" he tried to yell. "He wasn't!" But he was. His father was a prick. And there was nothing Jed could do to change that.  
  
He wanted Mrs. Landingham to come back, to talk with him, to tease him, to let him volley sharp retorts back to her. But she didn't, and he thought he was done again - until C.J. strolled in, notebook in hand, lean body soaring toward the ceiling.  
  
"That was 'old school,'" she said, the admiration obvious on her face.  
  
He didn't respond verbally, but his eyes communicated verification of her deduction. As he watched her, he felt a swell of love for this woman, a feeling of pride, as if she were his own daughter.  
  
He moved to embrace her, even if she didn't want him to, but the admiring expression melted, the light hair darkened, the willowy frame transformed into a petite body, a body he knew well. A body he had touched, kissed, made love to for over 35 years. A body he loved.  
  
"Abbey - " he whispered. Please come to me. Please stay.  
  
But she stood at the door, holding heavy suitcases in both hands, balancing the weight somehow even on three-inch heels. "That man would have never made such a decision," she said. "Not that man." No anger. No reprimand. Just resignation. Just disappointment.  
  
And she turned, moving away from him into the writhing shadows of uncertainty. He called her name, reached out to stop her, but his hand fell without touching her. His body would not move, wouldn't listen to his commands. The muscles twitched, trying to obey, wanting to follow through, but they couldn't. He felt himself fall, jerked his arms up to try to catch himself, but it was too late. He crashed into the blackness that had enclosed her retreating form, abandoning him, leaving him alone. She wouldn't be there, wouldn't see their journey through to the end, wouldn't hold his hand at the last.  
  
Despair flooded him, rising in his lungs until the sobs choked him. What was left?  
  
He didn't believe in suicide. It was against the teachings of the Church. In any event, he had always felt it cowardly. Stand up and face what God had intended for him. Who was he to question? But sometimes he allowed himself a brief moment to ponder the possibilities.  
  
How would it affect Zoey? What about Ellie and Liz? Without Abbey, the burden of his decline would fall on them. Was that fair? Was he being selfish to make them deal with the ugliness that would come? Was it fair to drag them through his disintegration?  
  
Or could he do that one thing for them? Could he let them remember him as their father - not the shell of the man they had once laughed with, cried with, played with, loved. Not the pitiful mess that used to be Jed Bartlet. They wouldn't have to know that. Better to leave while he still knew their names.  
  
Better for everyone while he was on top. Go out at his peak. Like Kennedy. Forever young. Well, not as young as JFK, maybe, but strong still, vital.  
  
Besides, there were other ways than relying on chemicals, without the syringe. Sometimes it just took strength of will. If you tried hard enough - But the turmoil wouldn't let him think about that too long. Voices battled inside him, voices of influence, voices of his conscience.  
  
This was wrong. This was weak. The first voice carried the harsh tones of his father. "This is not worthy of a Bartlet."  
  
Another voice. The subtle prompting of Delores Landingham. "You know, if you don't want to run again, I respect that. But if you don't run because you think it's gonna be too hard, or you think you're gonna lose, well God, Jed, I don't even want to know you."  
  
And another. The righteous reprimand of Toby Ziegler. "Your demons are shouting down the better angels in your brain."  
  
Echoing off all of them, another voice, a final voice, the one that cut the most. "I thought I knew you, Jed."  
  
He swallowed, tried to answer them all, tried to defend himself. But he was tired. He was so tired.  
  
With strength fading, he let his consciousness sink deep within himself, searching for the darkness that might hold the answer. A darkness that could capture his soul and let him slip into the freedom of release, of the next world, away from the voices, away from the demons.  
  
It would be so easy. 


	12. Just Stand There in Your Wrongness: Abbe...

POV: Abbey Spoilers: "White House Pro Am;" "Jefferson Lives" Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, but I would volunteer to John Wells to be their caretaker.  
  
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Twelve: Just Stand There in Your Wrongness A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Damn C.J. Cregg.  
  
Damn Leo McGarry.  
  
Damn Zoey Bartlet, even.  
  
But as she stood at the window, staring out into the gray marbles of Washington, D.C., Abbey Bartlet had already come to the conclusion that there was only one person to damn.  
  
Herself.  
  
Yes, she was mad as hell at Jed. Yes, he should have told her about Shareef, at least when it became apparent that the decision could have led to Zoey's abduction. Yes, he was a stubborn son of a bitch.  
  
And, yes, she loved him so much her heart burned inside her chest.  
  
Zoey, Leo, C.J. Their bold words served only to remind her of what she already knew deep down. She had been wrong.  
  
Not that this revelation vindicated what Jed had done. Not that he hadn't been wrong, as well. But she had been wrong. And now it was time to right that wrong.  
  
A smirk involuntarily curved her lips as she remembered another rare time when she admitted fault. Their first Oval Office fight, Jed had christened it, when the emotions had settled. It was mixed up with Ron Erlich's appointment, a fight for the news cycle, and general miscommunication. The main argument revolved around her leaking her preference for her former boyfriend to be named new Chairman of the Federal Reserve, and Jed trying to track down the source before he realized her direct role.  
  
"Jed, we share a bed," she had declared, furious that he would use his staff to send her a message. "Why didn't you just come to me?"  
  
"I staffed it out to C.J." His tone spoke of trying to convince himself as well as her.  
  
"You staffed it out?"  
  
"That's right."  
  
She let her anger show, knowing he had already recognized his mistake. "You don't staff me out. You don't give C.J. signals. You don't send Sam, and you don't bring Danny Concanon up here. Don't handle me, Jed."  
  
His response had been more volatile than she expected. "Well, don't play me, Abbey! Don't work me."  
  
They had argued about Ron for a bit. Even through her anger she was a little pleased to see that Jed could still be jealous over a long-finished romance. But they worked their way through everything and finally wound down. With tempers cooler, she felt the urge to give in some.  
  
As he walked around behind his desk, she suggested that he ease up on the high ground.  
  
Surprisingly, he gave a little himself, agreeing as he gazed out the windows. "On that point I concede the high ground."  
  
His willingness to negotiate inspired her to admit, "And I concede I was wrong about the thing."  
  
Turning, he looked at her, surprise on his face. "Good."  
  
"However - "  
  
But he stepped closer and cut her off, wagging a finger. "No. No however. Just be wrong. Just stand there in your wrongness and be wrong and get used to it."  
  
She had made her point anyway, and their first Oval Office fight had ended later that evening with a memorable session of make-up sex that left both of them physically drained but emotionally refreshed.  
  
The gray structures of D.C. refocused before her as she let her thoughts return to present. With resolve that she had not felt for a long time, she drew a deep breath and let the energy of anticipation fill her lungs, tingling through to her fingertips. Turning crisply, she squared her shoulders and stepped toward the hallway doors. Jed would get his absolution - well, at least forgiveness. And when he felt better, he'd get more than that. She grinned at the prospect, feeling another type of tingle tease her body at the thought. She had missed him so much.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet?"  
  
Even if she had not heard the urgency in the voice, she could not have missed the alarm that flushed the face of the young physician who approached her, white coat billowing out behind him in his rush. Even the Secret Service agents tensed around her.  
  
"Yes?" Calm, remain calm. But instincts told her she would have to work at it as soon as he opened his mouth.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet, I'm Alan Cowan. I'm Dr. Radford's partner."  
  
"What's happened?"  
  
If he was surprised at all by her perception, he didn't show it. "Ma'am, I don't want to alarm you - "  
  
Well, too damn late for that.  
  
"The President - " He faltered, cleared his throat and tried again. "I need you to come with me."  
  
A flush of terror, of anticipation for the worst, of the most dreaded pronouncement, flashed across her skin, blurring her vision momentarily until she reached down and grabbed control of her racing heart. Somehow, she managed not to scream when she ordered, "Tell me."  
  
His eyes revealed the regret he felt at being the messenger. "The President - the President's condition is deteriorating."  
  
Deteriorating? What a horrible word. A word she had dreaded for over ten years now. "How?" she asked, already moving toward the hallway, toward Jed.  
  
Striding to catch up with her, he said, "He's - he's not responding to verbal or physical stimulation and pupils are slow to contract when exposed to light."  
  
Dear God. He was fine earlier. Well, not fine, but okay. Conscious at least.  
  
"You've done an electroencephalogram, a blood deferential, an MRI?" Her mind automatically began listing the possible tests to run to determine cause.  
  
"We did a CBC, and found him to be slightly anemic, but not enough to cause unconsciousness." He paused, took a deep breath, and added the worst of it. "The EEG was more telling. Brain activity is - sluggish, weak."  
  
She swallowed, didn't want to ask the next question, but forced it out. "Coma?"  
  
Mercifully, the younger man shook his head. "Not yet."  
  
Not yet. Dear God. Dear God, please don't let him die.  
  
"BP?" Who was this calm, collected person responding?  
  
"Low. 86 over 55."  
  
"What caused it?" They were almost sprinting now, unable to reach their destination soon enough. He had been okay an hour ago. What the hell had happened?  
  
But no answers were forthcoming. "I - I don't know, Mrs. Bartlet. We can't find anything - physical."  
  
Turning, she clutched at his arms with both hands, forcing him to stop. "What do you mean - physical? What are you telling me?"  
  
Clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to say, the doctor swallowed but maintained eye contact. "I mean that whatever is happening to the President seems to be - a result of his own will."  
  
His own will? He was doing this to himself? He was killing himself? Was that possible? Then she remembered who this was and swore fiercely.  
  
"Son of a bitch!" She did not doubt that Jed had enough stubborn in him to do it.  
  
Despair turned to anger. Anger at herself, anger at him. Damn you, Josiah Bartlet, if you leave me like this I will track you down in Heaven and drag you back to Hell with me, because that's probably where I'll be.  
  
Then they were at the room, bursting through the doors, and she almost stumbled at her first sight of the ashen figure on the bed. Any anger fled with the horror of reality. Color had drained from his skin, his chest rose only in minimal, shallow breaths, his eyelashes cast shadows on pallid cheeks. Heedless of anyone else in the room, she fell against the rail, catching up his hand in hers, shuddering at the clammy, dying cold of his flesh.  
  
"Oh, Jed," she murmured. "Don't do this."  
  
She ran her hand through his hair, tousled and wild from where they had attached the electrodes to his head for the EEG. Frantic, she searched for an answer, for some way to reach him. But her only weapon now was herself.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet," the doctor offered gently, "We've got our best team on this. Dr. Radford is examining the results more closely. Admiral Hackett is working with him, as well as - "  
  
"Leave us alone." Short, brutal, but she didn't have time anymore for courtesy.  
  
"Ma'am?"  
  
Without turning, she repeated, teeth gritted, "Leave us alone."  
  
"But - "  
  
"Now."  
  
He didn't answer, but after a moment, she heard the door close softly. It was just them now. Just Jed and Abbey. As it had been in the beginning. Just two souls joined for a lifetime of love, of friendship, of decisions. Decisions. That was what had gotten them into this mess in the first place, wasn't it? His decisions. Not hers.  
  
But she had made some, too. She had left. She had taken his little girl. Didn't matter that it was for her own good, at least that's what she had told him. He knew why she was gone. And he knew what he had done.  
  
You would think he would have learned by now it was the thing she hated most: being left out. Not knowing. And it wasn't a matter of jealousy over power. They had always shared their thoughts, their decisions. Until the White House. Until his days became filled with secret missions and Sit Room briefings that he couldn't share, and he had borne the burden alone. Maybe that was it, even more than being left out - knowing that he didn't - or couldn't - trust her to take some of the load for him. Was he afraid it would make him less of a man if he let her help? Would it have made him less of a Bartlet?  
  
Then she knew she had been wrong before. There was one area that he had never shared completely with her, an area she had probed only on rare and ephemeral occasions: the relationship with his father. That would probably always remain incomplete to her. From the few glimpses he had allowed into that dark window, she had determined that there must be much more - possibly even things he himself had chosen to forget. But she had long ago realized that, regardless of how much he achieved, he still felt the need to succeed, to prove his father's criticisms wrong, to please the man who, for good or bad, had raised him. It didn't matter that John Bartlet was selfish and insecure, and not even half the man his son had become. For someone so brilliant, so witty, so compassionate, so seemingly confident, there was a deep seed of insecurity within Jed Bartlet that his father had planted so many years ago, and that all the success in the world - and he had come pretty close to all of it - would never totally destroy.  
  
Why had she not seen that? Why had she not realized that he still battled those old wounds, still questioned himself, still took the blame for all the evil in the universe squarely on his shoulders?  
  
Her thoughts returned to the events at hand. Recent voices clashed in her brain, reminding, scolding, pleading, warning.  
  
C.J.'s compassion. C.J.'s courage to risk her wrath for him - for them. "You, Abbey. He had you. And that made it all right. That made everything all right."  
  
Zoey's torn accusation, her own trauma too close not to hurt still. "Don't you know that he feels the same, that he blames himself for what happened? That you have just heaped coals on his head when he had already dumped the entire furnace there?"  
  
Jed's own confession. "I know you blame me, Abbey. You should."  
  
And the worst. Leo's prophesy. "Then you condemn him to death. Because he can't survive without you, Abbey."  
  
Is that what she had done? The one person he needed. The only person who could truly give him absolution. Had she pronounced his sentence?  
  
Clutching his hand in a literal death grip, she concentrated on forcing her very life into his body to bring him back from the abyss, from the edge, from eternity without her.  
  
She didn't know if he could hear her, had never really understood, even with her years of medical experience, how the mind worked when turned deeply within itself. Thoracic surgeons dealt mainly with the concrete. Arteries either worked or they didn't. Lungs sent oxygen or they didn't. But the mind, the soul? And this was Jed's mind she was trying to reach. Still, she had to try, had to believe he would respond to her, no matter what she had done before. So she began talking, long rambling sentences that kept flowing from her lips, desperate that she should reach him, that she could stop this spiral into oblivion that sucked him away from her.  
  
"Jed, don't you dare do this. I know you have to win, but this is not the way. You son of a bitch, I am telling you that I will fight you every step to Hell."  
  
She squeezed his hand again. It lay limp and cold in her grip. She pulled moments from her memory, moments they had shared, moments that might trigger some reaction that could break through to him.  
  
"Do you remember that time the girls stayed with my parents and we went to Nantucket? Just the two of us? And we stay naked half the time because it was a private beach? And the Coast Guard skiff caught us skinny dipping off my brother's catamaran? Do you remember that, Jed?"  
  
Her fingers slipped to his wrist, counted the pulse beats. Lethargic. Far too few. Massaging his hand, she fell back into the chatter.  
  
"What about our first night in the governor's mansion? What about that? We were a little drunk on champagne and a lot drunk on victory. You and Liz were singing "We Are the Champions" at the tops of your lungs. Remember that?"  
  
His skin had grown chalky now, his pulse even more labored. She released his hand and leaned over the bed, slipping an arm under his back and pulling him close into her embrace. He would not leave her easily, she would make sure of that.  
  
Choking now on the sobs that caught in her throat, she rocked back and forth with her burden, rubbing his skin in a futile attempt to warm him, to bring life back to him.  
  
"What do you want from me, Jed? Do you want me to say you were right? Well, damn it, I'll say it. You were right. You didn't have any other choice but to kill Shareef. It was the right decision. I know that. Didn't you see? I just wanted you to talk to me, to let me know what was happening. To let me help you. I just wanted to be with you like we used to be."  
  
The beep of the machinery slowed. She tried to ignore what that meant, forced her complete consciousness on him.  
  
"I'm losing you, Jed. I've been losing you since that first oath of office, and I can't bear it. I need you back. I need you to be my husband again. I need you to hold me again. I need you to make me laugh. I need you to spar with me about church, about politics, about the kids. I need you to kiss me again like you used to, so that I didn't want to feel anything else but your lips heating my skin. I need you to make love to me, Jed. I need that passion and that tenderness again. I miss you. Dear God, I miss you. I know it's my fault. I know I pushed you away. I can't change that, just like you can't change what you've done. But I want to move ahead now. And I can't do that without you."  
  
She was sobbing now, burying her face against his neck, holding his body against hers as her hands ran through his hair, down his shoulders. She had poured out everything, had held nothing back. But was it enough? Would it keep him here? Was that even possible? The physician in her ridiculed her illogical efforts, but the wife, the lover clawed at the only thing she had left. He could not leave her. He simply could not leave.  
  
Please, God!  
  
She wasn't sure how long she lay there, her body draped across her husband's, her arms cradling him, but she knew it couldn't last forever. Eventually they would return. Eventually, she would have to face reality.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet?" It took several moments before she realized someone had come back into the room. The doctor could have been standing there for seconds or minutes or longer. She decided she didn't care which.  
  
She didn't answer. What could he do, anyway?  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet?" he repeated.  
  
"Mom?" She might ignore him, but the voice of her youngest daughter was another matter. Had Zoey heard this? Had she watched her mother break down in despair over her father's death? Hadn't they put her through enough already without that?  
  
"Mom, let go." Hands reached down, firmly but gently, to pry her away from her husband.  
  
So it was time. The moment had come. Strangely enough, it wasn't how she had imagined it. Still, she found she couldn't quite make herself loosen the grip she had on Jed's body.  
  
Stronger hands joined Zoey's and helped her give up the fight. She bit back a moan as her fingers slipped from him. A blackness poured into her soul and she collapsed backwards, caught by gentle arms.  
  
"It's okay, Abbey." Leo eased her into a chair, not letting go until he was sure she would stay there.  
  
Well, they were all here, then, at the end. And they had probably witnessed her final, pitiful, undignified plea for Jed not to leave them. Like it had done one damn bit of good.  
  
With a fortifying breath, she took hold of her wits because that was what she would be expected to do. That was what Jed would want her to do. She was the First Lady, after all. At least for a little while longer. "Contact Liz and Ellie," she instructed whoever chose to listen. "They'll need to make arrangements to come. Has anyone called Russell?"  
  
"Russell who?"  
  
Glancing up, she looked into the bemused eyes of C.J. Cregg. Forgetting their earlier confrontation, she took another breath to clarify. Maybe they were just all in a state of shock. "The Vice-President."  
  
"He's still standing by," Leo answered. "As before."  
  
As before? "But now - "  
  
"Now what?" That was the doctor again, and finally the change in his tone registered. The alarm was gone, but no sorrow replaced it, no regret clouded it. He sounded almost - happy.  
  
How could he be happy - unless -  
  
"But Jed - the President is - "  
  
"Better," he finished for her.  
  
Stunned, she simply stared at him until he smiled and gestured toward the bed.  
  
"Look," he instructed.  
  
Bracing herself against the false hope that pushed inside her, she looked. He still lay there, eyes closed, but something was different. His skin, she realized. Pale, but not chalky, not with the pinched look of death. And his chest rose and fell in an easily visible rhythm. The heart monitor beeped with regularity. But the best sign was the twitching of his hand and the soft moans that signaled a return to consciousness.  
  
In years to come she would try to describe the sensation of that moment, but words never seemed adequate to the task. Elation, gratitude, humility, hope. All those, but so much more.  
  
Rising on shaky legs, she stepped back to the rail, oblivious now of the others, even of Zoey. "Jed?" She touched his face tenderly, delighted to feel the warmth return.  
  
"We'll be outside," Leo said, but she barely heard him.  
  
She watched as her husband struggled up through the layers that had almost snuffed out his life, held his face until those blue eyes that had first stolen her breath and her heart so many years ago looked at her again.  
  
He stared at her a moment, searching her face, reaching into her soul as he had always been able to do. She couldn't speak yet, didn't trust her voice to support actual words. Finally, the lines about his eyes crinkled and he nodded, just a slight movement that served well enough.  
  
"Abbey." A whisper. A caress. "You still here?"  
  
If her heart hadn't already been torn apart, that would have been enough to do it. As it was, she just clutched the ragged pieces of it and began the process of suturing it back together - of suturing both of their hearts back together.  
  
As her fingers brushed his jaw, she nodded. "I'm still here. You just trying getting rid of me."  
  
A short breath jerked his chest. A laugh, she realized. "Thought I'd already done that."  
  
The tears trailed down her cheeks as she shook her head. "You just thought, Jethro. You're gonna have to work harder than that to run me off for good."  
  
"I've - always been a hard worker," he quipped, voice weak, but even.  
  
"I don't think even you can work that hard, Jackass," she promised.  
  
He didn't say anything else, but his eyes stayed open, watching her, as if he couldn't believe she was really there.  
  
Guilt pushed at her, but she refused to accept it. They had both drawn in enough of that to poison everyone. No looking back. No references to broken promises. No regrets. What was done, was done.  
  
As they remained silent, content just to be in each other's company, she leaned in to kiss him, their first intimate touch since Zoey's abduction. It was soft, barely a brush of her lips to his, but it promised much more.  
  
Later.  
  
Now, it was enough. 


	13. America's First Sport: Jed

This is it, the final chapter of "No Heavier Burden." Thanks so much to everyone who has read and expressed interest in this story. As usual, I never meant for it to go on so long. It was begun before "Abu el Banat," so it's become a little AU, but that's what fanfic is all about, hmm?  
  
I decided that Jed and Abbey had been through enough from my pen and, thus, they are rewarded for their perseverance. (And maybe you'll feel rewarded, too. I hope so.)  
  
Enjoy!  
  
POV: Jed Spoilers: "And It's Surely to Their Credit;" "Separation of Powers" (a little) Rating: R Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, but, as usual, I wish they were.  
  
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Thirteen: America's First Sport A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Jed Bartlet leaned back in his chair, tugged off his glasses, and took a break from the detailed budget report. Rubbing at his eyes, he allowed himself a moment and gave into the weariness that stung them.  
  
"Mister President?"  
  
He glanced back, startled, at the concerned voice and smiled. It was nice - unusual - but nice to have Toby Ziegler asking about his welfare. But only because it was Toby. Anyone else would have irked him. With a wave of his hand, he assured the communications director, "I'm fine. This damned report is too damned long with too damned many words."  
  
"Yes, sir. That's why we are doing the damned editing."  
  
He chuckled. "Yeah." He could tell by the stiffness in his arms and legs that it was time to call it quits, a decision he had been forced to make with more care since the collapse. "Listen, Abbey's out tonight. Want to come up for a friendly game?"  
  
His companion leaned forward, his brows lifted. "Mister President, there is no such thing as a friendly game of chess with you."  
  
"Toby, I'm hurt. Surely you don't think I have any other intentions than - "  
  
" - to humiliate me with the inexorable carnage?" he finished ruefully.  
  
"I'll let you go first," Jed offered.  
  
"Merely allowing me to seal my fate one move earlier."  
  
That had never stopped him before. "Interested?"  
  
But Toby surprised him. Instead of his usual acquiescence, he hesitated. "I uh, I really can't tonight, sir."  
  
"No?" He tried not to show his disappointment too much. Knew he failed.  
  
"No, sir. I'm, uh, I'm babysitting tonight."  
  
"Andi going out?"  
  
"Yes, sir. She's - uh - she's speaking at the Democratic Women's fundraiser tonight."  
  
"Really? So's Abbey. They booked them both?" That seemed a little like overkill, but far be it from him to question the Democratic Women, especially since their votes had elected him in the first place.  
  
Toby shifted, his movements jerky. "Uh - I suppose so. What about that?" His mouth twisted in that awkward smile he had, as if he really didn't practice it enough to be good at it.  
  
"You could bring the babies, " Jed suggested, hopefully.  
  
Toby looked momentarily horrified, then said, "I don't think so, Mister President. Ab - Andi wouldn't like that."  
  
"She doesn't want her children to be able to say one day that they visited the President at the White House?"  
  
The eloquent writer was practically stammering now. "Uh, no, sir, that's not - it's just that - see, she's planned, well - I mean, Andi, of course - I just can't come, sir. But - thank you anyway."  
  
He was gone before Jed could decipher the gibberish, stunned at the uncharacteristic lack of poise. But he soothed his slightly wounded ego by thoughts that Toby had something strange going on that night - something he probably didn't want to know anything about.  
  
With a fatalistic shrug, he sat forward and let his mind flow over the recent events. He had been back in the office for a good month now, back to the work that had kindly waited for him that week his world finally fell apart, when his body had betrayed him, had ripped his fingers loose from their tenuous hold on what little control he had managed, to that point, to cling to.  
  
The time seemed almost surreal now, even from that horrific moment Leo and Ron had come to him with Zoey's kidnapping. Had it really happened? Had he almost lost his daughter? Had he almost lost his Presidency? Had he almost lost Abbey? Each time he considered those possibilities, it jolted him to acknowledge how close they were to the truth. Disaster had clipped him, wounded him, but not destroyed him. Not yet. And not ever, now, he knew. Because the one thing he needed, the one thing he almost lost that would have meant the end for him, that one thing was his again, as secure - or perhaps more secure - than it ever had been.  
  
Abbey.  
  
Even now, even weeks after her return, after her forgiveness, after her promise never to leave again, he felt the emotions welling at the center of his chest, threatening to overwhelm him. It happened sometimes in the middle of a budget meeting, sometimes during a Sit Room briefing, and he had to fight to stay composed, to keep the others from sensing the intense feeling that assurance gave him.  
  
Because Abbey was back. And she was not leaving him again. Even if he screwed up some more, and he was sure he would, although hopefully not quite as spectacularly as he had this time.  
  
He still wasn't quite sure what had happened between the time she told him she'd be "around - for now," and the moment he opened his eyes again to find her smiling down at him, her hand soft on his face, her lips brushing his. Somewhere in that strange, swirling gray that had claimed his consciousness, things had changed. And he wasn't about to question his good fortune at having somehow obtained her forgiveness.  
  
"Mister President?"  
  
He opened his eyes as Charlie poked his head in the door. With that simple greeting, the young body man was suggesting to the leader of the free world that it was time to close up shop for the evening. He checked his watch: 7:00 p.m. Not bad, at least compared to the hours he was used to keeping. No chess game with Toby. Perhaps it would just be a nice, quiet evening in the Residence. Maybe he'd finish the book of Greek poetry he had picked up that night that seemed so long ago, that night that really didn't end until Abbey came back to him.  
  
With just a little effort, he forced down the irritation over Charlie's hovering. Mainly because his body man was only the point guard on an entire team of mother hens who refused to allow him the same mistake again. Leo made sure his schedule stayed clear after 5:00 p.m., barring any major crises. C.J. and Josh dropped by each day, taking turns sacrificing themselves for a bout of national parks trivia or a crash course in international economics. Once or twice a week, Toby offered his brain as victim of a chess massacre. In observing the obvious attempts to keep help him relieve stress, he had asked Leo whose idea it was, but the chief of staff maintained his stone face and professed ignorance of anything he suggested. In the end, he accepted their efforts for the love and affection they represented, but insisted on a full schedule as soon as the doctor approved - and Coach Abigail, of course. Still, he decided, he might see how much longer C.J. and Josh would allow themselves to be trivia slaves, just for fun.  
  
"Mister President?" Charlie reminded when he didn't receive a response.  
  
"I'm going, Mother," he called out to his daughter's ex-but-hopefully-soon- to-be-again boyfriend.  
  
"Yes, sir," the young man replied, smiling, satisfied that he had done his duty, but also obviously pleased that things had gotten so much better. His genuine affection for the President never failed to warm Jed.  
  
"Hey," he said, an idea forming, "why don't you come up and we can talk a while, maybe look at that economics project you're working on for your class." He tried not to notice the panic that flashed across Charlie's face before the body man controlled his expression.  
  
"Uh, thank you, Mister President, but I - I have to - help Deena with her homework."  
  
"Charlie, I'm offering to help you with your homework. I do know one or two things about economics, or at least the committee in Stockholm seemed to think so." He stepped around his desk and placed a hand Charlie's shoulder. "Besides, what the hell kind of homework does she have in the middle of summer?"  
  
The young man flinched. "Uh, it's one of those honors courses, sir, that Georgetown offers to high school kids. And I'd better not let her slack up. I can't set that example. Just as you, Mister President, have set the example for me and hard work. But now you have certainly earned a chance to just go upstairs and relax."  
  
Bartlet frowned. Surely Charlie wasn't blowing him off. "It would be relaxing, Charlie," he wheedled. "How many Econ 101 students have the opportunity to get advice from a true economist? I could make a few suggestions for your paper."  
  
"I'm thinking, Mister President, that my submitting a 204-page plan to restructure the entire fiscal strategy of the United States might be looked on with minor suspicion by my professor."  
  
"We could use short words."  
  
"Thank you, anyway, sir," he said, then mumbled something that sounded almost like, "The First Lady would kill me."  
  
"What's that?" Jed asked sharply.  
  
Charlie blinked. "Uh, I said the First Lady would kill me if she found out I had kept you up late."  
  
His eyes narrowed at the suggested betrayal. "Traitor." He waved a hand. "Okay, go. See if I care when you get a C."  
  
"Yes, sir. Good night, Mister President."  
  
If he weren't so self-assured, he would begin to get a complex. The President of the United States turned down by both his Communications Director and his body man. Wasn't being the commander-in-chief worth something? Well, he couldn't fault them for having personal lives; he just wished they could have been a little more convincing in their excuses.  
  
With a sigh, he stuffed his briefcase with papers he would probably fall asleep reading and allowed his thoughts to cloud, drifting over the past six weeks, six weeks of darkness that had twisted and dragged him so far down he almost couldn't escape.  
  
But somehow he had kicked free and broken the surface, gasping for air, taking in the oxygen his brain craved. He wasn't sure how it happened - and he had the uneasy feeling that it almost didn't, that he came too close to succumbing to the abyss, to being sucked so far into the maelstrom that he couldn't escape. Something had helped him, something had given him the strength to claw his way back.  
  
And he had a fairly good idea who that had been.  
  
As he stepped into the warm Washington evening, he took in a breath and grinned in true happiness at the guards. "Good evening, gentlemen," he called, breezing past them at his old pace.  
  
"Good evening, Mister President," they returned.  
  
As he walked, he decided that things seemed to be righting themselves. He reflected on the press conference skillfully handled by C.J. the day after he returned to the White House. The country had held its breath for a day or two, not completely convinced by C.J.'s optimistic reports that their President wasn't about to abandon them to the questionable succession of Bingo Bob. But, as usual, the adroit press secretary had managed to acknowledge the incident without any subterfuge, while at the same time minimizing its true impact.  
  
"The President experienced a momentary lapse in consciousness after being up for over seventy-two hours straight working to complete the transition from Acting President Walken's tenure back to his own control," she had reported smoothly, almost with studied nonchalance. "Add to that the fact that he had just gone through an experience that created stress for him and his family such as very few of us can imagine. I think we can all understand how this could have happened."  
  
The press corps shuffled, as usual, for her recognition. "C.J.!"  
  
She had pointed at a familiar face. "Sandy?"  
  
The tall, dark women stood, poised and professional. "C.J., when the President left the hospital, we all saw the bandage over his cheek. Was that an injury sustained when he fainted?"  
  
The press secretary frowned a little at the term 'fainted,' having carefully avoided it in her wording, but she nodded. "He fell against an end table in the Oval Office. My report here says that he received five stitches to close it, but that there should be only a minimal scar."  
  
Another hand rose above the others. "C.J.!"  
  
"Steve?"  
  
"Did the President suffer a relapse from the stress? Was this incident a result of his MS?"  
  
They had all known it would come up, but fortunately, C.J. could answer this one without any hesitation. "The cause of the lapse in consciousness was sleep deprivation and exhaustion. It had nothing to do with the MS." Of course, she didn't add that his existing condition certainly had not aided in his recovery, but the doctors had no definite proof there actually was a relapse. The only suspicious symptom was the blurred vision, which had cleared within a few days.  
  
The rest of the conference dealt with the President's return and the fact the Mrs. Bartlet and Zoey were back, too, a development they all understood could only have a positive effect on the President's health.  
  
All in all, it had turned out much better than he expected. On reflection, he might just give C.J. a break from the trivia, since she had done so well. He rubbed two fingers over the healing scar on his cheek and whistled a bit as he lengthened his strides.  
  
Halfway down the colonnade, Leo fell into step beside him. "Mister President. Calling it a night?"  
  
Jed glanced sideways at him, not slowing his steps. "As if you didn't know, you and your SPECTRE agents."  
  
"I have no idea - "  
  
"I know. I know. You're completely innocent."  
  
"As usual, sir. You have plans for the evening?"  
  
Jed nodded. "A nice quiet night. Perhaps some Greek poetry. Maybe a lacrosse game on ESPN 2." The last thought just occurred to him and he added it, knowing it would provoke a response from his friend.  
  
"Is this lacrosse season?" Leo wondered cheekily, not failing in his predictability.  
  
"Would you know if it were?"  
  
"Good point."  
  
"Besides, Classic Sports always has something good."  
  
"Sure, if you can be mesmerized by the explosive action of a women's field hockey game that was decided ten years ago."  
  
He twisted slightly to bestow a disdainful glare at his old friend. "For your information, lacrosse is America's first sport, created by the North American Indian. It requires coordination and agility."  
  
"Coordination?" Leo smirked, and Jed knew a good natured slam was coming. "I'm assuming, then, you've never - "  
  
"Watch it - " he warned.  
  
"Watching it, sir," came the amused response.  
  
Jed shook his head, partly playing, partly scolding. "You're not a true fan, Leo."  
  
"Never professed to be, Mister President."  
  
They had entered the building, now, exited onto the residence hall. Leo slowed.  
  
"Wanna come in for a while?" Jed offered. They had gotten past their tensions, that strange clashing of wills and philosophies that separated them after Zoey's rescue and Abbey's departure. Tonight would be a good time to allow the old camaraderie to peek from behind the professional masks again. It had been a very long time since the two friends had relaxed together, Jed and Leo, not the President and Chief of Staff. And truth be told, he would enjoy the company.  
  
Leo's face twisted in an almost-smile before he smoothed it. "I think not, sir. I wouldn't want to intrude on your lacrosse game."  
  
"You, too?"  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Toby and Charlie turned me down, too," he admitted, a little embarrassed at the petulance in his voice.  
  
Leo grinned. "So I'm third choice?"  
  
"Well, if I could have found Haffley, you would have been even further down the list."  
  
"I'd better not, sir," he said, ignoring the bait.  
  
With effort, Jed covered the disappointment, unwilling to shovel guilt on a man who had borne so much for him the past weeks. But he made one more gentle attempt, in case Leo really did want to stay, but was uncertain about this invitation.  
  
"You sure? Abbey had a thing tonight. I'll have to make a big-to-do over it. Last time I didn't place importance on something she did - " He stopped and winced at the memory of that frustrating evening. "Well, I won't make that mistake again. You sure you don't want to stay?"  
  
But the chief of staff adopted a look of careful innocence and shook his head. "Thank you, sir, but no." Backing away, he said, "Have a pleasant evening, Mister President. I hope you enjoy the game."  
  
Something in his stance and tone intrigued Jed, but Leo was already turned and out the doors before he decided to ask about it. And America's first sport awaited him, so he shrugged it off and approached the double doors. The guards in place nodded deferentially.  
  
"Mister President."  
  
"Fellas. You okay tonight?"  
  
A particularly beefy agent assured him, "Yes, sir."  
  
"Listen, I'm planning a nice quiet evening, so no interruptions."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
But a sudden vision of nodding in front of lacrosse reruns convinced him not to shut himself off completely. After all, if Toby decided tonight would be a good one for losing another chess match, that might be pleasant. If Charlie came to his senses and chose to make an A instead of a C on his econ paper, he'd be willing to forgive. Or if Zoey dropped in to munch Fritos and cheese dip and just chill, he could go for that, too.  
  
So he added, "Well, unless it's, you know, someone who needs to see me."  
  
The agent looked at him without turning his head at all. "No need to worry tonight, sir. We know the plan."  
  
Jed frowned, wondering if he was being mocked. Surely not. "Okay, well, good. See you in the morning."  
  
He was developing a suspicion now that Abbey had made her contacts, insuring that he was uninterrupted for the evening. No chance of work, no office conversations under the guises of relaxing. A forced exile. He would rest despite his best efforts.  
  
Well, lacrosse it was, he supposed. An uneventful, mundane evening alone. Not such a bad prospect.  
  
But as soon as he stepped through the double doors, he froze, his breath catching in his throat. Any thoughts of Toby, or Charlie, or Leo, or Zoey, or lacrosse, or Greek poetry vanished from his brain, annihilated by the splendor before him.  
  
Abigail Bartlet stood at the foot of their bed, a shot of bourbon in one hand extended toward him, the other hand braced on the bedpost, her hips cocked in a marvelously seductive stance. She wore only black lace panties and a matching bra that tried in vain to keep her ample breasts from pushing over the tops.  
  
After a moment's astonished pause, he shook himself, stuck his head back out the door, and amended, "Guys, about that last part, the part about interrupting if someone needed to see me?"  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
"Nevermind."  
  
"Yes, sir," the agent acknowledged, so smoothly Jed knew he must be completely aware of what the evening now held for his President.  
  
His left hand pushed the door closed behind him, lest they see more than they had a right to see. His right hand stripped the tie from his neck and flicked open the top three buttons of his shirt as he took several steps toward the enchanting beauty who blatantly flaunted herself for him.  
  
"I thought you had a thing - " he began hoarsely.  
  
She smiled, a wicked smile that sent needles of excitement straight to his groin. "I do have a thing."  
  
"You said it was a fundraiser," he ventured.  
  
"Well, I do intend to raise things," she told him, "but not necessarily funds."  
  
The blood in his body began redirecting itself immediately.  
  
"But the Democratic Women - "  
  
"There's only one Democratic Woman you need to worry about tonight," she purred.  
  
"Does this mean we're okay for - " Please say yes.  
  
Stirring the liquid with her finger, then lifting to her lips, she said, "Dr. Radford called this afternoon. Your last tests look good. You are clear for - recreational activities. No limitations." Her brow lifted once with the last statement.  
  
He swallowed, affected by both her words and her actions. "No limitations?" Except perhaps stopping somewhere short of giving him a heart attack.  
  
This was the old Abigail, the one who teased him, who sparred with him, who shot back playful banter to him even in the midst of their lovemaking, at least until they had reached the point of incoherence. He sincerely hoped they made it there tonight. She was playing the game; it was only fair that he join in.  
  
With effort, he feigned a casual tone, shrugging. "Well, I had sort planned to watch lacrosse tonight."  
  
"Really?" She shifted so that her hips thrust toward him slightly.  
  
Swallowing again, he nodded vaguely. "Uh, yeah."  
  
"Be my guest." She gestured toward the television cabinet.  
  
But he found himself without any sharp response and realized he was out of practice, both with the teasing and with the seduction. Okay, end of game. Might as well claim defeat and offer himself as prisoner.  
  
"No," he said with a genuine smile, "I'll defer to your guidance."  
  
"A wise move, Mister President." Moving toward him slowly, letting her hips swing hard with each step, she handed him the glass, brushing his wrist with her fingers as she released it. Fire raced up his arm and flushed his cheeks. It had been so long since they were together. The night before Zoey's graduation, he remembered. And that had been nice - it was always nice - but this, he could tell, promised much more.  
  
"The guard said there was a plan - " he prompted, hoping to move things along more quickly.  
  
Still smiling, she nodded. "Yeah."  
  
"You mean they know - "  
  
"They know that even if the Kremlin is calling, they take a message." Her arms slid around his neck. His pants tightened in response.  
  
"What about the Pope?"  
  
"You'll call him back." She brushed her breasts against his chest. The pressure at his groin became increasingly uncomfortable.  
  
"Nicole Kidman?"  
  
Her body made full contact now, hips pressing against his, grinding in hot invitation. "Not in."  
  
The ache at the pit of his belly erupted into an almost burning pain. He was beginning to wonder if he would survive this night.  
  
Her lips pressed against his neck, sliding down to nibble at the hair revealed by the open buttons of his shirt. Gamely, he attempted to continue the conversation.  
  
"I tried to get Toby to come play chess tonight," he admitted.  
  
"Yeah?" She swirled her tongue around a few tuffs.  
  
"Yeah. And I worked on Charlie, too. And Leo."  
  
"No luck?" Her hands worked their way down his back to his hips.  
  
"Uh uh."  
  
"Too bad."  
  
"Uh huh. Funny how they all had something to do," he probed, having a good idea now why they resisted his invitations.  
  
"Funny," she agreed, sneaking her hands between them to finish unbuttoning his shirt and run her fingers up his chest.  
  
"Does everyone know the plan?" He could see the smirks tomorrow morning at Saturday staff meeting, not that he gave a damn, though.  
  
"I had some accomplices," she admitted. "Mad?"  
  
He shook his head, and, without having taken one sip of his drink, fumbled the glass onto the nearest table, catching his wife hard against him, sliding their mouths together, mingling their tongues, showing her just how mad he wasn't. Returning his kisses, she slipped the shirt off his shoulders and tossed it carelessly toward the sofa. Now only the lace of her bra separated him from her bare nipples.  
  
"Oh, Abbey," he breathed, forgetting all teasing, his voice rough with the intensity of his desire, "I've missed you so much."  
  
But when he bent to press a kiss over the fabric, she shook her head and knelt in front of him. His breath almost stopped completely as she unbuckled his belt, brushing against the bulging material below it. His knees weakened even before she had touched him, and he found himself bracing against the couch in an effort to remain standing while her fingers slowly eased the zipper down, taking extra care as the metal teeth struggled over the prominent protrusion.  
  
Heart pounding in his chest, he dropped a hand to brush through her hair, to urge her against him, unable to stop the surge of desire that pushed him. But the delicious sensation stopped abruptly. He opened his eyes, not remembering having closed them, to see her standing again, staring at him.  
  
Oh hell, what had he done, now? The horrible thought occurred to him that she had changed her mind, that maybe this was purgatory. This was his penance for his sins. He was Tantalus, condemned to eternal hunger and thirst with ripe fruit and sweet water always just out of reach.  
  
"Jed," she said softly, taking his face between her hands.  
  
He looked back, afraid to answer, afraid of what she was about to say.  
  
As if she had read his thoughts, she smiled and shook her head. "Let me do this for you tonight."  
  
He breathed again. Things were all right. Things, as a matter of fact, were quite wonderful. "Do what?" She was already doing everything he wanted.  
  
"You just lie back and let me take care of things."  
  
He grinned. "Hot Pants, you're already taking very good care of things," he assured her.  
  
But she wagged a finger at him. "If I take care of things, that means you have to let me. I'm in charge."  
  
In charge? He liked the sound of that. Obediently, he answered, "Yes, ma'am."  
  
"All right. Take off the rest of your clothes and lie down on the bed," she instructed. He had already managed to follow her orders almost before she finished them. "No touching until I say so."  
  
No touching? This might be more difficult than he anticipated.  
  
As he watched her saunter toward the bed, he didn't think he could be any harder than he was at that moment. He ached for her, and he saw her eyes gleam at the intense effect she was having on him. Stretching out on his legs, she hovered over his pelvis, teasing the swollen tip with her mouth, and running her fingers up and down the insides of his thighs. It was almost too much, too soon.  
  
"Abbey," he groaned, reaching a hand down in an attempt to slow her caresses. The blood pounded furiously through his groin, and he knew he wouldn't last long at that pace.  
  
"Uh uh," she scolded lightly, catching his wrist. "You're just to observe, not to participate."  
  
"Babe, whether you intended it or not, I'm participating," he pointed out as he watched her take him in again. "Ahh, oh yeah, I'm participating."  
  
She pulled back, grasping the thick base with her fingers, a move which didn't help his precarious situation at all. "I told you just to relax and let me take care of things."  
  
"Oh, you're taking care of things all right, Sweet Lips. A little too efficiently, if you know what I mean," he warned. "As for relaxing - "  
  
She grinned and released him. "We'll slow it down a bit."  
  
He wasn't sure he could, but he made a valiant effort and was pleased to feel the urgent need lessen slightly. Just slightly, he emphasized to himself as she crawled up his body, placing kisses along the line of hair over his abdomen and across his chest before coming to rest with her mouth poised above his and her legs straddling his hips. The roughness of the lace against his bare skin triggered a shudder through him, and she raised her brow once in almost evil pleasure at what she was doing to him.  
  
"God, you are incredible, Abbey," he groaned, pushing his hands toward her panties in an effort to slide them off. "Just let me - "  
  
"Uh uh," she whispered, grasping his wandering fingers. "Remember, I'm - "  
  
" - taking care of things, I know," he finished for her, then arched his hips upward to press his throbbing erection into her pelvis. "Take care of this, please."  
  
Her moan was his reward. That and the return thrust against him that almost took him over the edge. If she would only let him touch her the way he wanted to. But she had made it clear she was in charge. It was, he figured, an apology of sorts, a physical demonstration of what she had already told him verbally. And who was he to argue when she was trying to make amends?  
  
Except that he was beginning to doubt his ability to see the plan through to completion, at least in her time frame. And he didn't want to let her down, didn't want to end it before it had really begun. So he decided not to play fair anymore. Sliding his mouth over her jaw, he let his tongue flick at her earlobe, gratified to feel her tense against him. Before she could stop him, he had licked down her neck and sucked firmly at the one spot he knew drove her crazy.  
  
"J-e-e-e-d," she groaned, arching into his wet caress. "You're cheating."  
  
But she didn't pull away, so he braved a hand against the small of her back, dipping lower to run his fingers over her buttocks. Still, he knew from experience she could hold out for a long time, taunting him with her moans, tantalizing him with her calculated wriggles. But either he had overestimated her own control or she had realized how close he was, because suddenly, she was sitting up, stripping off the bra, panties following in quick succession, and curling her hand around his base, guiding him against her flesh, now hot and wet and ready.  
  
Gasping, he took her surrender as his cue that the plan had just been altered, reaching up his hands for the first time to run the palms over her breasts, feeling the hardened peaks push into his touch.  
  
"Abbey," he said, fighting for control a little longer, "can you feel what you've done to me? I want you so much. I want to make love to you all night, but right now - "  
  
Her answer was to shift her legs so that he was poised right where she wanted him - right where he wanted to be. He felt the heat surround him, groaned as he slid against her, their intense arousal making them slick and smooth. But still, he held back with his last ounce of willpower, letting her make the ultimate move, hoping he could wait for her.  
  
With a breathless sigh, she sank onto him, letting him slide into her as she clutched at the hair on his chest. He didn't even feel the pain of her fingers over the ecstasy of being inside her again. Deeper and deeper he pushed as she arched her hips and moaned his name.  
  
Oh God, that felt good, too good. His jaw clenched in an effort to hold back for her, but as he hit the deepest spot, she cried out, surprising him with the explosion of spasms that squeezed him, with the hot release that burned him. She jerked against him, and he gripped her shoulders, doing his best to extend her pleasure with his hard thrusts. Their bodies met over and over, Abbey crying out with each driving push. Finally, as the frenzied writhing slowed, he knew he didn't have to wait any longer - couldn't wait any longer.  
  
With a growl that contained no teasing whatsoever, he grasped her thighs and turned so that she lay beneath him. Before they were completely settled, he withdrew just to the edge, then plunged deep inside again, his body moving instinctively, wildly. They hadn't been this out of control in a long time, but he couldn't have stopped even if he had wanted to - and he sure as hell didn't want to. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him into her again and again. His arms shook as they braced against the mattress; sweat ran down his face, dripped from his jaw. His entire soul seemed to gather at one point, ready to burst from his body, to merge with hers.  
  
She urged him on with her voice, her hands, her body, until he gave in to the power of that final eruption, shattering as the climax overtook him, washing through his body and into hers, pouring out the weeks of torture, of doubt, of guilt, like a cleansing baptism. It seemed to go on and on. His muscles cramped with the convulsions, but he couldn't spare the time to relieve them. When the orgasm finally released him with one last shudder, he fell against her, exhausted, still trembling as his nerves screamed their protests over such treatment.  
  
"Jed?" she whispered after a moment, her gentle voice marked contrast to the fury of just moments before.  
  
"Mmm?" It was as coherent as he could manage between gasps.  
  
"How ya doin'?" It was casual, light, but he heard the more serious question through the tone.  
  
He groaned and made his mouth move. "I'll let you know when my heart starts beating again."  
  
Now he heard the smile. "I'm sorry I couldn't wait for you, Babe."  
  
With much more optimism than he felt at the moment, he mumbled against her neck, "You'll wait for me the next round."  
  
"Okay," she agreed, placing a kiss against his sweaty neck.  
  
Finally able to send enough of a signal to his muscles to move, he withdrew from her and fell to the side. She snuggled against him, draping one arm over his stomach. They lay there for several minutes, their damp bodies cooling in the air. Lifting his hips, he pulled the comforter out from under them and draped it across their legs.  
  
He was still shaking a little. He was breathing hard. He was completely drained of any energy.  
  
He felt incredible.  
  
He planned to lie there a little longer, regroup, and do his damnedest to fulfill his promise to her to make love all night. But the body in his arms suddenly stiffened, shifted, and he knew something was about to change.  
  
"I've got something to tell you, Josiah Bartlet," she began, tone quiet but business-like.  
  
He tensed. Josiah? That was usually not good. Usually he was in severe trouble when she used his given name. If she added Edward, he might as well just turn and run.  
  
But she didn't. She propped herself up on an elbow and gazed down at him, smiling. Not the seductive smile of before, but a deep, warm, almost sad smile. "You are a wonderful man," she told him, and he couldn't keep the surprise from his face. It only made the smile sadder.  
  
"I haven't told you that enough," she whispered, brushing her fingers over the fading scar on his cheek. "I have teased you to keep from getting too deep. I have criticized you so you wouldn't over-reach that Montana-sized ego. But you need to know this. You are a brilliant, witty, warm, compassionate, loving, charming, handsome man."  
  
With effort, he pushed his jaw shut and cracked, "How much is this gonna cost me?"  
  
But she wouldn't allow his self-deprecation. "I love you so much, Jed Bartlet." That did it. The tears that shimmered in her eyes were now mirrored in his. "I know that you've been through hell these past few weeks, and I know that a lot of it was my fault. And I am so sorr - "  
  
This time he slipped his fingers over her lips. "Shh. You've already said it. I've already said it."  
  
"But I want you to know that - "  
  
"I know. Didn't you see Love Story?"  
  
She smiled through the tears. "But love does mean having to say you're sorry. Love means being willing to say you're sorry."  
  
"That's done," he reminded. It was done for both of them, long ago. Their souls, their minds, their hearts had rejoined weeks ago. And now their bodies had finally followed.  
  
She pulled away from him for a moment, and when she turned back, he saw that she held the book of Greek poetry he had been reading when he collapsed. Voice soft, she flipped to the very poem that had followed him down into the darkness that night.  
  
"Anguish devours the mind, and furious rage, and hope than which the heart can bear no heavier burden, when it is long deferred."  
  
"Abbey - "  
  
"Is that what you felt, Jed? Is that what it was like? That your heart couldn't bear anything else?"  
  
His hand touched her face. "Abbey, don't do this. I'm fine. It's okay."  
  
But she shook her head. "No. We made a commitment to each other thirty- six years ago to share everything. We have shared our dreams, our jobs, our children, our passions, and we have shared our burdens, Jed. It's sure as hell not time to stop now when they are just getting heavier."  
  
He knew she referred to many things, to the decisions of the Presidency, to the increasingly complicated lives of their children - to the uncertain future they faced with the MS.  
  
Sighing, he ran a hand through his tousled hair, unable to look her directly in the eyes, apologizing for what she would go through. "I know thirty-six years ago you didn't anticipate - "  
  
But she interrupted, catching his jaw and turning his face toward her. "I didn't anticipate being First Lady of the United States, although I should have known. I didn't anticipate what amazing influences you have had on the entire world. I didn't anticipate your still being as incredibly sexy today as you were thirty-six years ago."  
  
He stared at her, for once speechless.  
  
Now her hands slid down his body and that gleam shone in her eyes. "And I didn't anticipate that we would be in the White House making out like teenagers every chance we got."  
  
Her touch charged him with energy he wasn't sure he still had. He felt himself respond beneath her skilled fingers. But he needed her to know one more thing, despite the risk of losing the moment. "Abbey, you know there are still some things I can't - "  
  
She stopped him again, this time with a kiss hard against his mouth. When she pulled back, she said, "I'm not asking you to reveal state secrets. I don't want to be privy to Sit Room discussions. I just want you to let me take some of the burden off. Can you do that, Jed?"  
  
Her green eyes almost pleaded with him, for herself, for him, for their children, for their marriage. And he knew that, even though there would continue to be things he couldn't tell her as long as he was President, he could let her make those burdens just a little lighter, for both of them.  
  
Nodding, he smiled and kissed her gently. He could do that. He could do that all night.  
  
"Round Two?" she suggested, arching against him.  
  
"Wait for me this time?" he teased.  
  
"I'll wait for you forever, Jethro," she assured him.  
  
He grinned, pulling her on top of him. "I always did like your confidence."  
  
And in the end, they shared again and again. Their dreams, their words, their passions.  
  
And their burdens. 


End file.
